The Wrench in the Plan
by Hannelore-Grace
Summary: When John unintentionally foils one of Moriarty's schemes, he becomes the target of Jim's next strike against Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

Jim pressed his fingers into the wood of his desk until their pads turned white and his nails flushed pink. He released the edge with a push, sending himself spinning in a rush of color and anticipation. He wondered if this is how normal people see the world; all blurred shapes and flashes of color smearing into meaningless drivel. He couldn't imagine how it felt to be normal, predictable, pedestrian. Everyone else leads lives so boring they don't even notice the mind-boggling monotony of their existence. It's a tragedy, really. For this reason, Jim thought he must be the happiest man in the world. Only he had the clarity of vision to see the shades of grey tinting London's horizon; only he had the imagination to make it erupt into a dazzling spectrum of violet and mayhem. His life was never mundane.

He slapped his palm against the face of his desk to stop the spinning. Smiling at the rushing sensation still fogging his mind, Jim called for Sebastian. "Seb, is everything ready?"

The walking hunk of muscle murmured into a walkie talkie for a moment before responding. "Yes, sir. Sherlock should be on the scene in less than ten minutes."

"Punctual as usual." Jim allowed a grin to twist the corners of lips. All was falling perfectly into place. Tonight, months of planning and three weeks of running Sherlock ragged would culminate in what would become Moriarty's greatest achievement yet. As he keyed up the security footage on his computer screen, Jim couldn't help but let a shiver of excitement run up his spine. It was all so perfect.

He slipped on his headphones and mic. The sound of static crackled in his ear before the on-site microphone kicked in, and the sound of ragged breathing and a little girl crying took its place. Both were sounds to which Jim had become accustomed, but tonight they held such deeper significance. Jim only hoped that he could rely on his stunt double to play his part well. Of course, the fact that the man's family was currently being held at gunpoint would certainly be encouragement to do so.

Finding a Moriarty look-alike had been quite the daunting task for Jim's men. They had been forced to scour all across Europe to find a man with the same slight build and bone structure as Jim. Eventually, they had discovered Herr Wilhelm in Germany. Once they dyed his hair and forced him into a suit, he was almost the spitting image of Moriarty. Almost, but still lacking the gleam of genius (madness?) that lit Jim's otherwise black eyes. For this reason, the warehouse in which he was being held with an ambassador's daughter was dimly lit, and he had been instructed to stand close to the shadows. The decoy had also been outfitted with an advanced speaker system which was connected to Jim's microphone. Even if the heavy accent hadn't been a giveaway, no one could quite capture the cadences and musicality of Jim's speech.

Jim bit his lower lip to suppress gleeful laughter as a street-view camera caught sight of a black cab slowly approaching the warehouse. He felt his whole body thrumming with anticipation. Tonight was the night; tonight was the beginning of the end for Sherlock Holmes.

He had been stringing Sherlock along for weeks now, dangling one piece of meat after another in front of him; all of which paled in importance next to what was about to take place. Jim had begun with a simple but "unsolvable" murder. Then he had thrown in the theft of some multi-million quid jewel, and a streak of minor bombings for good measure. Needless to say, Sherlock was completely and utterly hooked on the case, just the way Jim wanted him. As his final crime, he had kidnapped the daughter of a prominent North Korean ambassador, causing tensions with the already volatile nation to escalate to a steady boil. If the girl was not rescued, the country faced retaliation and war. It was all so perfect. They were on the precipice of total mayhem, and only Sherlock had the power to pull them from the ledge.

Jim trusted Sherlock implicitly to do just that. He closed his eyes and envisioned for what must be the hundredth time how Sherlock would react when he came to rescue the little girl…

_He steps into the warehouse, face flushed with the thrill of the chase and caution abandoned in the cab. He has no reason to be cautious; he's deduced by now that they point of the game in not to kill him. He's deduced that he has many more trials to face before his heart is a smoldering lump of ashes. So he walks straight into the warehouse, probably expecting to have to defuse a bomb that's been secured to the child. Jim's clues had hinted at this, after all. His little pet, Johnny-boy, is right behind him, looking apprehensive as usual. They both stop in their tracks when they see the young man standing over the little girl, adjusting the explosives that adorn her jacket._

And this is where the fun really begins.

_While John draws his gun, Sherlock will step forward, slightly puzzled by this unexpected twist. "Moriarty," he will say Jim's name like a curse, as it should be._

_"Ah, Sherlock, so glad you could come for the party. I would hate for you to miss the fireworks." Jim's voice will be delivered through the cleverly concealed speakers in perfect clarity. The dimmed lights will prevent Sherlock from noticing anything amiss._

_"How could I resist?" Sherlock will now be fighting back a smile. He knows it's improper, but he is elated to have yet another confrontation with his new arch nemesis._

_"Sherlock…" John will have maneuvered himself forward in a semi-circular path, his military training preventing him from turning his back to Jim. He is reminding Sherlock of the little girl, reminding him that a frail, useless life is at stake. Always the doctor, always predictable._

_"I'm a little peeved with you, Sherlock. You've come before I could get all the decorations up. I'm afraid that I'm not quite ready yet."_

_Sherlock's face will alight in that beautiful way it does when his mind is stimulated and intrigued. He will think he's caught Jim at a disadvantage; he will think that he's finally one move ahead._

He won't realize until it's too late that Jim has been three moves ahead the whole time.

_"I see you don't have your snipers with you this time."_

_"I'm sorry to say that you've just missed them. They're all preoccupied at the other side of the city at the moment. Something about having a dignitary needing assassination. I'll tell them you said Hi."_

_Sherlock will tense, wondering at how he can stop both the bombing and the assassination. He'll realize that he can't halt both, and he'll decide to cut off the head of the snake, as it were, to seize this opportunity to kill Moriarty._

Sherlock may be a brilliant genius, but he is as obvious as the rest of humanity. Jim can play him like a fool, if only he plucks the right strings.

_Sherlock will draw his own gun and point it square at Jim's chest (he would never shoot Jim in the head; Sherlock would much prefer to watch his face pale and go lax as blood runs out of his chest). _

_"Step away from the girl," he will order Jim as if he actually cares about the child. Which he doesn't. Obviously._

_Jim's stunt double will do as he's told, knowing that not to do so would make his own newborn daughter's life forfeit. Sherlock then nod to John, silently telling him to tend to the child while he tends to Moriarty._

And here is where things become complicated…

_While John is kneeling next to the girl, Sherlock will be advancing towards Jim's decoy, wondering whether he should be killed or arrested. "Jim" will make the decision for him by pulling out his own gun and shooting John. (Really, the fake Jim's gun is loaded with blanks. A sniper who has been hidden in a crate nearby will do the actual shooting. Jim doesn't trust his imitator's aim.) Sherlock will rush to John's side. He'll be horrified by the blood, by the way John's hands are fluttering over the wound, unable to stop the bleeding. Then Sherlock will decide. Then he will turn and shoot Jim, shoot him right in the fragile organ which Jim had promised to burn out of Sherlock. The detective wouldn't be able to resist the irony of it._

Except he wouldn't have killed James Moriarty; he would have killed an innocent man, one whom was just trying to protect his family. And Sherlock will begin to break. The loss of life won't bother him as much as knowing with utter certainty that Jim had won the game. Knowing without a doubt that Jim could predict his every move and twist and manipulate him as he chose. He would begin to doubt himself, to question his intellect. And, oh, it was all so _perfect._


	2. Chapter 2

John slouched as far down in the seat of the cab as he could, stretching his right leg while massaging his left shoulder. He was tired. He was hungry. He was sore. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed as keyed up as ever, never mind the fact that he hadn't slept properly in days, possibly weeks. The detective was scrolling through pages of data on his phone, the pale light of the screen illuminating the fervor in his eyes. Occasionally, he would mumble something to himself, presumably concerning how to defuse a bomb without causing it to blow a certain ambassador's daughter back to North Korea in bits and pieces.

"You know, we could wait for Lestrade and the bomb squad to get there and take care of it." John knew that his suggestion was foolish even before he said it, but he felt that Sherlock should be made aware that there were trained professionals whom could do the job just as well as himself.

"If we wait, we run the risk of not defusing the bomb before the detonation time." Sherlock cast John a look that was obviously meant to question his intelligence. Having grown quite used to these barbs, John simply ignored it and went back to staring out the cab window.

Three weeks. Ever since that first murder, they had been running practically non-stop for three weeks. Sherlock had been a whirlwind of action the entire time; he ripped through clues with an intense ferocity, hoping to catch Moriarty at a disadvantage just once, hoping to see him slip up just enough to be caught at his madman's game. No matter how quickly Sherlock solved the puzzle, however, Jim always had another one waiting. And so the chase went on.

In those three weeks, John hadn't once laid down in his own bed to rest. He caught quick naps in cabs or in an office at the police station while Sherlock and Lestrade hovered over their latest clue. Once he even found himself nodding off while standing at a crime scene; he had been rudely awakened by Sherlock demanding that he examine a particularly gruesome wound on yet another victim. Such was life as Sherlock's "colleague." Of course, Sherlock himself was in no better condition. The only times John had seen Sherlock sleeping were when Molly was busy conducting her autopsies; even then, he had only slept when he had been assured by at least three people that they would wake him up as soon as the test results were in. As much as he liked to contest the fact, Sherlock was only human, and he was rapidly beginning to show signs of wear and tear. John suspected that they would both be hospitalized for exhaustion and malnutrition once this blasted case was finally over.

As much as John liked to contest the fact, he was still suffering from PTSD, and the symptoms were becoming worse as the days dragged on. He could feel the bullet grinding in his shoulder as if he had just been shot, could feel the muscles seizing around an invisible injury in his leg. He had been surreptitiously popping aspirin since a week and a half ago, but he knew that his pain wasn't going completely unnoticed. This much was obvious by the way Sherlock had started insisting that they take cabs when they could have easily walked to the next crime scene. Donovan could declare Sherlock an "uncaring freak" all she wanted; John had plenty of evidence to prove otherwise. This being said, John's quiet suffering had yet to stop Sherlock from dragging him along on yet another wild goose chase. Not that John would ever let Sherlock hunt Moriarty alone; he just wished that he had an actual choice in the matter. It would make him feel a whole lot less like Sherlock's trained puppy being dragged along on a leash.

John really hated being called Sherlock's guard dog. First of all, he had always preferred kittens, and, secondly, he honestly couldn't help that Sherlock's blatant disregard of his own safety forced John to act as a shield against all things aimed maliciously at the detective. Quite frankly, the Yard owed John for keeping Sherlock out of harm's way on at least four separate occasions in the past week alone. John only hoped that he could focus through the pain enough to maintain his vigilant watch over the detective.

"John, you're doing that thing again."

"Huh? What am I doing?"

"That thing. The thing where you stare at me as if I'm about to hurl myself out of the cab or some other such nonsense. It's very unnerving."

"Oh." John shifted his position in his seat once again, wondering why, when his mind turned on idle, it invariably began to think about Sherlock. "Sorry. Just worried about this next case."

"I won't do it again."

"Do what, Sherlock?"

"Run in the building without you. I know it bothered you last time…" Sherlock was now staring intently at John, his eyes raking over the doctor as if he could dissect him with vision alone.

John was certain he could.

"Oh. That. Okay." Exhaustion was taking its toll on John; he was lucky that he'd managed to form his less-than-eloquent response to Sherlock's statement. He was relieved that the detective had promised not to leave him behind again. Yesterday, John had only just come to Sherlock's aid in the nick of time. Gun shots were already being exchanged between Sherlock and some of Moriarty's cronies, and the detective's aim was shoddy at best. John suspected it had something to do with the concussion Sherlock had recently obtained while digging about a bomb site. At least he had begun wearing hard hats now. John couldn't help but chuckle at the memory of Sherlock standing amidst a pile of rubble with a big yellow hat smashing his curls into his eyes. It was made even more comical by the fact that Sherlock had been wearing a very nice suit and silk scarf. John had been able to suppress his laughter at the time, but now it was rolling from him unchecked.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock was now looking at the doctor as if he'd fallen completely off his rocker. Which was probably true at this particular moment. Something about the hysterical edge to John's laughter had him wondering just how much longer he was going to remain conscious before dropping to the floor in a drooling mass of sweater and jeans.

"You should never wear hats, Sherlock. You looked ridiculous." John wiped tears from the corners of his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. His outburst of laughter had subsided into quiet sniggers that caused his chest to heave and ache. He was sure that they sounded suspiciously like sobs, but he didn't rightly care at the moment.

Sherlock's eyes swept over John once more, his brow furrowing as he tried to deduce the cause for John's strange behavior. "You're tired."

"That's the understatement of the century, Sherlock." John had slumped back against the window the cab, letting his cheek press against the cold glass. He was content to let the sounds and sights of the city fly by unnoticed for the moment.

"You should have gone back to the flat. Lestrade could have come with me."

"Oh yes, sure. So you could dash off and leave him wondering where in bloody hell you've run to. And you're forgetting that Lestrade has a certain duty to uphold the law, which would interfere immensely with your preferred method of dealing with criminals."

"I'm not the one that shoots every cabbie with a pill bottle."

"And I'm not the one dense enough to get myself accosted by every cabbie with a pill bottle." John's words were meant to be more venomous than they came out. Really, he could hardly muster the energy to form a retort. He expected Sherlock to spit back yet another insult of some sort, but instead he was greeted with a resounding silence. John raised his head just a bit to peer at the detective and make sure that he hadn't fallen into a coma borne of sleep deprivation. No, Sherlock was simply staring ahead with his arms folded across his chest and a slight pout adorning his face. John sighed, hating to see Sherlock look so. "Sorry."

"It's not a problem. You're just overly tired and therefore more sensitive and irritable. Like a woman during PMS. In fact, I believe you and Sergeant Donovan would get off quite nicely at the moment. Perhaps you should give her a ring." Sherlock hadn't even glanced at John during his little rant. Instead, his eyes remained resolutely forward.

John rolled his eyes but didn't say anything. Doing so would only prove Sherlock's point. Instead, he tried concentrating on the case. It seemed fairly straight-forward; an ambassador's daughter had been taken by Moriarty, and they were expected to retrieve her before a bomb blew her to bits. Simple. Of course, John was certain that things would become more complex when they actually arrived at the scene. They always did. "And you're certain that this is Moriarty's last puzzle?"

"Yes. The note left with the ambassador said that this was the final round of the game. Moriarty may be a madman, but even he needs time to recover and plan his next move. This is the end of the line, at least for now."

"Good." John was sure that his relief was overly obvious, but he honestly didn't think that he could handle one more of Jim's twisted games, both physically and psychologically. He had seen far too many bodies caught in the crossfire of Jim and Sherlock's private little war. He tried to banish these thoughts from his mind, but the cab ride dragged on and he couldn't cast aside the images of broken and bleeding bodies that plagued him. So he sat quietly and suffered through them, as he did the nightmares and psychosomatic injury to his leg.

Finally, the cab arrived at the designated warehouse. Sherlock bounded out of the vehicle as fresh as ever, but John had to haul himself up using the door as a grab-bar. He dragged himself after Sherlock, feeling his weight settle uncomfortably on his right leg. He tried to rush forward in an attempt to catch up to the detective, but his muscles shrieked in protest and he was dropped rather unceremoniously on the ground. John pushed himself up into a sitting position, staring unbelievingly at his aching leg. Despite knowing that the throbbing was almost entirely mental, he couldn't ignore the electric shocks of pain shooting through him. He let out a small groan and began massaging the muscles, trying to coax the ability to move back into them. Apparently, John's moan had finally caught Sherlock's attention, because the detective turned around and caught sight of John sprawled on the cold earth.

"John! John, are you hurt?" He ran back to the doctor, eyes instinctively searching the top of the warehouse for snipers.

"No. Not really. It's just this damn leg. It's given out on me." John tried to push himself into an upright position, but he had barely risen a foot off the ground before he was forced back down, face cringing in pain.

"Oh. Here, let me…" Sherlock knelt beside John, his gloved hands reaching to help massage life back into the gimp limb. John bit his lip and fought back another moan as Sherlock kneaded the muscles.

"Sherlock, that's not helping. I think I just need to get back to the flat and warm up a bit. Maybe sleep in an actual bed."

"Yes, of course. Um…Here." Sherlock grasped John under his arms and hauled him to his feet. He then stood about awkwardly, still clutching John's elbows to keep him vertical. "I'll just help get you to the cab, then."

John was too tired to feel even remotely embarrassed by the way Sherlock had to stoop to get John's arm wrapped around his shoulder, or by how the detective's hand clutched at his hip. Together, they limped back to the cab, both receiving questioning glances by the befuddled cabbie. After John had been bundled away back into the vehicle, Sherlock stood outside, hand placed on the roof of the cab indecisively.

"So you're really alright, John?"

"Yes, I'll be fine."

Sherlock threw a glance back to the warehouse, and then turned his attention on John once again. "I…I think I may come with you."

"What? No, Sherlock. I'll be fine. It's just exhaustion. Boring, common, everyday exhaustion. You don't have to—"

"No, but I want to. I think it's high time the boys at Scotland Yard earn their keep, anyway. They can take it from here. It is, after all, just a bomb."

"Sherlock—"

"Really, John, it's fine. I want to go home just as badly as you do." Sherlock slipped back into the cab, pushing John a little bit farther in and slamming the door behind himself. "The coppers are almost here, too. By the time I actually got in the warehouse they'd be upon us, and I would be utterly useless. Might as well take a rest." Sherlock smiled, but John could see the forced edge to it. He leaned forward and instructed the cabbie to take them to 221B Baker Street, completely ignoring John's feeble protests.

"What if the little girl is in danger? This game is meant for you after all, Sherlock, not Lestrade."

"No, she'll be alright. Moriarty never gets his hands dirty, remember? He will have left the scene long ago. At this point, the only danger is from the bomb, and Lestrade's men can take care of that one on their own. Besides, how did you expect to get into the flat on your own? Were you going to crawl up the stairs and through the door?"

"Where there's a will, there's a way." John sighed his final protest, but quickly grew quiet as sleep began to overtake him, as if his body had finally realized that he was out of danger and it could get some much-needed rest. He was only vaguely aware of Sherlock pulling him next to his shoulder, allowing John's head to slump against the junction of his neck and shoulder. Sherlock propped his chin onto the blond mop of hair, wondering what had convinced him to leave the scene of the chase.

He did not feel the least bit guilty for abandoning the little girl when John was in need of his help.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim continued staring at the computer monitors for a long moment, trying to piece together what had just happened in his now whirling, chaotic mind. Something had gone wrong. But it couldn't. It just _couldn't._ He'd planned so well, taken every move Sherlock could possibly make into consideration. He had thought of _everything,_ dammit! He raked his fingers through his hair, tugging at the black locks until the sting brought him back to reality. Jim forced himself to concede that he hadn't thought of everything, otherwise Sherlock would be in that warehouse right now, like he was supposed to be.

He hadn't thought of Doctor John Watson.

At least, Jim hadn't thought of him as a hindrance to his plan. A pawn to be shoved around as Jim so chose, yes, but not as a knight that would attack from the side and derail the scheme which Jim had been plotting for months. Jim had always been aware of John Watson, at least, he had been aware of the doctor since promising to burn the heart out of Sherlock. The way Sherlock's eyes had widened and glanced involuntarily at John after that statement had told Moriarty all he needed to know right then; when the time was right, John would be his ace to throw Sherlock over the edge. So Jim had been planning all sorts of special little surprises for John, including, but not limited to, the sniper in the crate tonight. Of course, the sniper had been firmly instructed not to kill John; Jim would need him alive and at least mostly functional for later blows against Sherlock.

Angrily, Jim thrust his chair away from the edge of his desk and rose to his feet. Not caring that Sebastian was likely right outside the door and could hear him if he so much as whispered, Jim threw his head back and screamed for the man. The towering man entered the room as he normally would, all calm professionalism in the face of Jim's pending fury.

"Yes, sir?"

"Where in bloody hell are they going?"

Sebastian took a moment to speak to some of Jim's cronies stationed elsewhere before responding. "Surveillance reports that they're headed in the direction of 221b Baker Street."

Jim closed his eyes and huffed out a breath, attempting to force a calm malice upon himself, instead of the turbulent ire that would only cloud his judgment and make him lash out irrationally. "How long until the police arrive on the scene?"

"They should be there within two to three minutes."

"Tell our sniper to get out of there." For a moment, he considered setting the place in flames with half of Scotland Yard in it just to make the night worthwhile, but he quickly disregarded this plan. As fun as it would be to say that he had been the catalyst of a war, such political squabbles tended to drag on for years, and during those years people paid less attention to what he was doing. It wasn't right, and it was boring. Besides, there were much more clever ways of starting a war with North Korea; burning an ambassador's daughter alive was just so dull. Any common street criminal could do it. No, he would certainly find something with more pizzazz if he decided that a war was necessary. In the meantime, he would let the police rescue the girl and his stunt double. There was even a small chance that they would kill the man! That would be very entertaining, indeed.

"Sebastian, I'm ready to go home." His bodyguard didn't even flinch when Jim gripped the crook of his elbow and leaned his head against the taller man's shoulder. He was frustrated and tired, and this was the closest thing to a hug he would allow himself.

They walked to the black car in silence, Jim puzzling over what to do next now that his original plan had been so completely and utterly thwarted. Damn that John. Damn him damn him damn him _damn him_! Jim could feel the rage threatening to boil over once again, but he didn't rightly care at the moment. He had worked so hard, so fucking hard, just to have it ruined by some nobody. Some insignificant little man with a funny leg. How pathetic. How appalling. To say Jim was thoroughly peeved would have been the biggest understatement of the decade. He was mentally cataloging every possible way in which he could get back at the doctor, from the sadistic to the downright repulsive. At this point, he was open to any form of vengeance, really, as long as he was guaranteed to hear Doctor John Watson screaming for mercy and pleading for Moriarty's forgiveness.

Jim would give it, of course, but not until John had proven that he was sorry for what he'd done.

Jim flexed his fingers into the cushion of the seat, already feeling the itch for violence causing his muscles to twitch. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window, letting the gentle shaking of the vehicle sweep him up in its rhythm. A plan was beginning to take form in the darkest recesses of his mind, but Jim wouldn't be able to act on it until he had gotten some rest. For now, he contented himself with dream-like visions of John's face contorted in agony and fear. Such soothing thoughts to have before drifting off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

As the cab pulled up to their flat, Sherlock endeavored to shake John out of his slumber. His efforts were rewarded with an incoherent mumble and a quickly aborted attempt at sitting up. John slumped back against Sherlock rather quickly, and the detective suspected that he hadn't made a proper effort at rising. No matter. He simply clambered out of the cab and walked around to John's side before hauling the door open and dragging him out. John's head bobbed upwards, and he stared blearily at Sherlock as his arm was once again pulled around the taller man's shoulder.

"It's awfully hard to sleep with you dragging me all over kingdom come."

"Yes, well, I'm certain that our poor cabbie would much rather go about his night than have a sleeping ex army doctor in his back seat, deterring potential clients."

John flashed Sherlock a crooked grin before turning his attention back to getting into the flat. The stairs were just as bothersome as Sherlock had foreseen, and it took them quite a long time to get John to the top and through the door. After their exertions, they both decided that John would be perfectly comfortable sleeping in his arm chair for the night. Sherlock unlaced his boots for him and wrapped him in a blanket before settling down on the sofa to wait for news from Lestrade.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"John? Sherlock?" The detective was pulled out of a semi-aware stupor by the sound of feet clunking up the steps. Judging by the distribution of weight on the soles of the shoes, Sherlock surmised that the Detective Inspector was paying them a visit. "Are you home?" The grey-haired man popped his head through the door and caught sight of Sherlock, sprawled rather ungracefully on the sofa.

"Obviously. What news do you bring? I'm assuming that you and your swarm of incompetents didn't blow the south part of London into the heavens?"

"Indeed not. We were able to defuse the bomb long before it was set to explode. It's almost as if Moriarty didn't actually want to have the bomb go off. It was just a bit too easy for my comfort, is all." Sherlock could tell by the way Lestrade's eyes were crinkling slightly at the corners that something else was bothering him, too.

"Was there another clue at the crime scene?"

At this, the DI shifted rather uncomfortably. He was obviously feeling self-conscious for not having complete information to give Sherlock. "Well, there was another man there. Rather unexpected, really. We almost shot the poor fellow. We thought he was Moriarty at first; I swear, he's a dead ringer for the criminal."

Sherlock's interest was instantly piqued. This was _new_, this was exciting. "Really? A Moriarty doppelganger, how peculiar." He hopped to his feet and began pacing the length of the lounge. What purpose would Moriarty have for a stunt double? Was this another clue? Or was it part of an on-going scheme which Sherlock had yet to discover? Oh, how exciting! "Have you questioned him yet?"

"No. The poor bastard's German. None of us have been able to get an English word out of him yet. Anderson was able to engage him in some light conversation, but he's not fluent enough to get the whole story. What we do know is that his name is Hans Wilhelm, he's thirty one years old, and he has a family in Stuttgart."

"Of course Anderson would muck things up." Sherlock continued pacing, his frazzled mind grasping at any and all explanations it could fathom. None seemed like a plot worthy of Moriarty. Finally, he stopped pacing and flopped back onto the sofa. "You'll tell me when you have more information about the man?"

"Of course, although I'm still not sure how much we'll be getting. I'm not entirely sure that the man himself knew what he was doing there."

"No. Certainly not. Moriarty would want to keep him in the dark." Sherlock pressed his hands to his eyes, groaning at the thought of this latest puzzle. He knew he was much too tired to solve it now, but he also didn't believe that his mind would be able to rest properly until he had it figured out.

"So what are you boys doing here, anyway? I assumed that I'd have to drag you two away from the crime scene." For all his nonchalance, Lestrade's eyes once again betrayed the true concern he was feeling.

"It was John. His leg gave out on him, and he needed to come home." Sherlock waved a hand in the direction of John, whom was now curled in his chair in a rather impressive display of body contortion.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the sight, wondering how John could look so peacefully asleep when resting in that position. "You know that he's only going to be in more pain when he wakes up tomorrow if you leave him there."

"I didn't know what else to do. His room is upstairs, and after dragging him up the first set, I don't particularly want to do it again. I suppose I could let him sleep on the floor..."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and bent to try and shake John awake, but he was stopped by Sherlock looming overhead. "I wouldn't wake him up right now. He'll punch you."

"Why on earth would he hit me?"

"Look at his face, Lestrade. Eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids, denoting that he has entered REM sleep and is therefore dreaming. Jaw clenched tightly, presumably in reaction to whatever he is dreaming. And then there's his left hand. It is clenching and un-clenching against his leg. We both know that he has an occasional tremor in that hand as a result of PTSD, so we can therefore deduce that whatever he's dreaming is related to his time in Afghanistan. In short, he's having a nightmare concerning his time in combat, and if you wake him up now, you will be punched, most likely in the face."

Lestrade blinked up at Sherlock for a moment before pulling his hand firmly away from John. Suddenly, the black eye the detective had been sporting a few weeks back and the rueful way that John helped tend it made perfect sense. In this matter, he would defer to Sherlock's expertise. "So what can we do about it? Just let him keep having nightmares?"

"Of course not." With that, Sherlock sat on the arm of John's chair, sliding his hand underneath John's own left hand. He began slowly running his thumb over John's knuckles until his muscles relaxed and his hand went limp in Sherlock's grip. Meanwhile, Sherlock wrapped his other arm around John's shoulders and started gently rubbing circles around the scarred tissues beneath his shirt. After a moment, Sherlock disengaged himself from the doctor and rose to his feet. "There. Now you can wake him."

Lestrade uncomfortably cleared his throat, feeling as if he had just watched something far too intimate. He was sure that Sherlock didn't realize how compromising his actions appeared, but still...He shifted awkwardly before reaching out and shaking the doctor awake. "John, would you like help getting up to your room?"

John untangled himself quickly, staring up at the DI in surprise. "Lestrade?" He blinked several times in an attempt to force his eyes to focus and not roll back into his head.

"Yes, John. Sherlock and I are going to get you up to bed, now. Okay?"

"Oh. M'kay." He made a concerted effort to help them, but his chin was slumped against his chest before they were even halfway up the stairs. With both Lestrade and Sherlock working, however, they got him up and onto his bed within a few minutes. Lestrade shook his head and cast Sherlock a look of disapproval.

"You really shouldn't keep dragging him along on cases when he's this uncomfortable. Running yourself into the ground is fine, but as long as you have a colleague, you're obligated to make sure that he's cared for, too. You could at least let him sleep at the flat for a bit while you run on your fool's errands."

"I can't," Sherlock smiled fondly down at the doctor. "I'd be lost without my blogger."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author: I wanted to take a moment to thank you all for the wonderful responses that I have been getting for this story. The reviews and alerts truly are staggering, and I have greatly enjoyed reading your comments. I hope I continue to please!**

Breaking into the flat on Baker Street had been easier than Jim had ever imagined. He was almost disappointed that his entry hadn't been more difficult. It would have been more fun that way. Despite the ease with which Jim entered the flat, slipping past Mycroft's surveillance had still provided a semblance of the exhilaration he had desired. The car accident he had arranged just a few doors down from 221b had provided enough of a distraction for himself and Sebastian to slip into the flat through a shadowed window. After that, it had simply been a matter of laying low long enough for any suspicions to die down. Jim had to admit that he could think of much worse ways to spend an evening; he rather enjoyed being hunkered into a wardrobe with Sebastian while they waited for things to settle down outside the flat. They had even shared a few whispered jokes, although Jim still didn't understand the one about a Rabi and a Priest going to a bar. He would have to do some research on that one.

Once they had determined that it was safe to go out, they had stepped out of the wardrobe and looked around. Judging by the clutter and random assortment of lab equipment tossed about the room, Jim determined that they were in Sherlock's quarters. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the mess; he wouldn't have guessed that the world's only consulting detective would be such a slob. They truly were opposite sides of a coin.

He sent Sebastian out of the room first in order to neutralize any potential threats. Jim was sure that they wouldn't run into any problems, what with both the men being sleep-deprived, but he was still precautious. He valued his life significantly more highly than he did Sebastian's, and he had no qualms with sending the hired muscle into possibly dangerous situations if it meant ensuring his own safety. After a few moments, Sebastian quietly waved Jim out of the room, signaling that all was clear. Jim strode out, anxious to see the rest of his nemesis' living quarters. He had seen it before via photographs and recordings, of course, but one could hardly compare such images to seeing it in person. Colors and objects and dirty truths never came out quite as clearly through them.

He was once again shocked by the chaotic explosion of junk that littered the floor, tables, counter tops, and shelves. Stacks of magazines and newspapers were leaning against the walls, threatening to tumble at the slightest provocation. Beakers with clotted layers of mold surrounded the kitchen sink, and a stain that looked suspiciously like blood was only half-covered by an askew area rug. Jim was so occupied with the general mess of it all that he didn't notice the gently moving lump bundled at the far end of the sofa. When his eyes finally roved over to the couch, he first assumed that a pack of rats had made their nest on the seat. Eventually, he was able to discern Sherlock amidst the scatterings of books and papers. The detective had rather effectively hidden himself under a blue robe and wool blanket. For a moment, Jim was thrilled to see his opponent so vulnerable, but then he remembered that he was here for John. He must remember to keep his priorities straight; he would have endless time for Sherlock later.

Jim gestured to Sebastian, whom instantly understood his intent and withdrew a syringe from his pocket. Creeping silently over to the sofa, he pressed the needle through the layers of Sherlock's nightwear and into his flesh. The detective didn't even stir as the syringe's contents were emptied into his blood stream. Unsurprising. Jim doubted that the sedative was even necessary. Still, he'd rather be safe than sorry.

Jim stole one last glance about the apartment before heading up the stairs to John's room. He was sure to stay out of sight of the windows as he moved about, not wanting any of Mycroft's men to ruin his evening by being a bit too nosy. There was a noticeable change in cleanliness as they ascended the steps; the mountains of reading materials began to dwindle in size until, when they reached the top, the stairs were completely devoid of such detritus. Jim took a moment to predict what John's room would look like before they entered. It was sort of a game for him, to see how accurately he could read people.

He was gratified to see that he had been essentially correct in his conjecture. The room was sparsely furnished, with only a bed, wardrobe, bookcase, and desk all pressed up against the wall in an orderly fashion. It was hardly decorated; only a couple of pictures hung above the desk, and these were clearly of sentimental value. Perhaps they had been hanging in a loved one's home before their death, perhaps they were mementos of John's childhood. Jim strode over to the desk and began examining the contents of its drawers, completely ignoring the man curled atop the bedspread next to him. Jim found a collection of pens, some rubber bands, and a notebook containing phone numbers and addresses. He also discovered a case of bullets, leaving him to wonder just where the gun had gone. He searched the other drawers for it, but he only found a worn copy of _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy _and a clarinet reed. Interesting, but not relevant. After ferreting through John's wardrobe and still not finding the gun, Jim concluded that it was either elsewhere or lost. Most likely the latter, considering how often Sherlock took it for his own personal use. Jim had looked down the barrel of that same gun enough to know that it was in Sherlock's hands more often than John's.

Finally, he grew tired of rummaging through the doctor's belongings and called out to Sebastian. It was time to punish John for his misdeeds, time to show him why it was unwise to interfere in James Moriarty's affairs.


	6. Chapter 6

John was jarred awake by the sensation of an unexpected weight settling on his bed. His body had already snapped into combat mode as he attempted to rise and investigate what was going on in his bedroom. Instead, his limbs remained uncharacteristically heavy and prone against the bed spread.

"Oh, I wouldn't try to move around too much, Johnny-boy; you wouldn't want to over-exert yourself before the fun has even begun."

John's blood ran cold as he recognized that voice, that infuriating nickname. He turned his head and gave a hiss of anger as he saw the dark-haired man laying next to him. "Moriarty."

"Please, you mustn't be so formal. Jim will do nicely. You and I really should be on a first name-basis, especially considering all the time we're going to spend together this evening." Jim's face stretched into a broad smile, the kind that John suspected would get him institutionalized if any respectable therapist saw it.

"What do you want, _Jim_?" John tried load the name with as much loathing and anger as one word could hold. It seemed to work a bit, because the psychopath's smile few just a fraction of an inch. Good. Angry criminals talked, and John needed Jim to talk as long as possible while he assessed the situation. Clearly, he had been drugged with some sort of a mild paralytic; he could hardly move his extremities, and they were plagued with an unpleasant tingling sensation, but his mind was blessedly unfogged.

"Now, John, there's no need to be so aggressive. At least, not yet. Right now, I just want to have a little talk. It seems you and I are going to keep running into each other, so I think we should get to know each other." John did not like the way that Jim's eyes had taken on a mischievous gleam. On Sherlock, this look meant that he was about to say something mind-bogglingly brilliant; on Moriarty, he was sure it meant evil.

" do you want to talk about?" John was relieved to hear that Jim would be content just to chat for a bit. If he was lucky, whatever drug the criminal had given him would begin to wear off without him noticing it. It was a long shot, but he could still hope that all his prior exposure to various drugs would increase his resilience.

"Oh, just you know, Life, the Universe, and why in bloody hell Sherlock is still letting you tail along behind him."

"Isn't that a question you should be asking him?"

"I would, but he's indisposed at the moment."

John had to force himself not to react to Jim's casual statement. He had assumed that Sherlock was out of the flat. It only made sense; he'd never once considered that the detective wouldn't notice Moriarty and whomever else breaking in. The thought of Sherlock in danger..."What did you do to him?"

"Nothing much. Just some sedatives. Of course, he'll be getting a real doozie of a cocktail later, but that's none of your concern right now." John couldn't help but notice how Jim wriggled in the bed as he spoke of what events he had planned for later. His anticipation didn't bode well for either John or Sherlock.

"You asked why Sherlock keeps me around. I can honestly say that I don't have the slightest clue."

"Oh, that's not completely true, is it? Surely you must have noticed how well you two get off together? Or how keen Sherlock is to protect you?"

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, Jim. We fight almost constantly, and Sherlock doesn't give a damn about my well-being. If you're looking for a way to get at Sherlock, you're barking up the wrong tree." John could barely repress a frustrated sigh. It was bad enough having half of Scotland Yard accusing Sherlock and him of being more than just flatmates; having a deranged psychopath make the same accusation was bordering on exhausting. "I'm nothing more to Sherlock than a flatmate and his own private cheerleader."

"Mm. You might want to talk to your therapist about that inferiority complex; it's very unattractive. And you're very wrong, John. I think you mean much more to Sherlock than you see, and he is much more to you than a flatmate. The evidence is all there, if you choose to look for it."

"Wonderful. Is this really what you wanted to talk about? Mine and Sherlock's supposed romance with each other? Trust me, it's been hashed over at least a dozen times by people whom know us much better than you." John was starting to get irritated. He wasn't used to remaining motionless for so long, and the desire to sock Moriarty a good one in the mouth was becoming overwhelming.

"Oh, I doubt anyone knows you two better than I do. I've been doing some reading on Sherlock's web site, and I believe that I've learned enough to make some deductions of my own now." Jim was now crouched on the bed, hanging slightly over John with a malicious smile tugging at his lips. He looked positively predatory.

"Shall we start with the obvious? First of all, your last girlfriend was Sarah, and that was over two months ago. While with her, you only made half-hearted attempts to be a good companion, and you always canceled plans with her when Sherlock called. So you didn't actually want a girlfriend; you just wanted the gratification that Sherlock was not providing. The fact that you haven't had any bedfellows since Sarah is evidenced by your reactions to me. You didn't wake up when I jabbed your arm with a syringe, showing that you've somehow grown accustomed to such treatment, most likely during your internment at the hospital for your shoulder. You did, however, wake up when I got in bed with you, showing that you're not used to sharing your sleeping space. Ergo, you've not had any sexual conquests since our dear Sarah, and I doubt you even made any such conquests with her, either.

"Furthermore, you haven't made any attempts to obtain another girlfriend, signaling that your desires lie elsewhere. For most, this would mean that they're focusing on a job or working out personal crises. Since you are over-qualified for your current position at the clinic, you need not focus on professional development. And, since you prefer to ignore your emotions rather than work them out, you are clearly not avoiding a girlfriend on the grounds of an emotional crisis. Therefore, you already have a potential partner in mind whom you have yet to attract. The only question that remains is, Who is this person whom has entrapped Doctor John Watson's attentions so thoroughly?

"The answer to that question lies right here in your flat. Despite being a bachelor, you keep yourself, your room, and your bathroom meticulously clean. This is quite abnormal, given that you're not bringing lady friends over. Your military training might explain this near-obsessive level of hygiene, but it is unlikely. Most commonly, ex-military men come home and rebel against the strict norms of service by becoming lax in their personal maintenance. So you're trying to impress someone whom comes to your flat with relative frequency. This brings the list of possible partners to: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, or Sherlock. Given that there is a bottle of lubricant tucked away in your desk drawer, we can eliminate Mrs. Hudson. From here, all we have to do is watch how you faun over Sherlock to confirm that you do, in fact, have feelings for your flatmate."

Jim settled back, beaming from ear to ear as he watched John clench his jaw. He looked the definition of smug. "Well, was it as good as Sherlock? Did I get it all right?"

John cleaned the smug look off his face with a fist to the mouth. "Piss off."

Jim licked at his split lip, a certain darkness descending upon his features. He appeared vaguely reptilian as his tongue darted from his mouth to stroke at the wound. Abruptly, his face cleared and a sneer broke out across his lips. "I'll take that as a yes. And now I'm done talking, Johnny-boy. I'm afraid that you've rather gotten in my way tonight, and I don't like it when other people interfere with my clever plans. As cliche as it may sound, I'm going to have to teach a lesson about what happens when things don't go my way."

John scowled, trying to force more movement into his body. If only he could reach upwards..."What do you mean? I haven't done anything tonight."

"You're very wrong there, Johnny. You've done much more harm than you'll ever be able to comprehend. You see, I needed Sherlock in that warehouse tonight. It was of vital importance that he be there. But you ruined that, didn't you? Because of you and your pathetic needs," Jim gripped John's left shoulder and ground his thumb into the scar tissue, "He left before my grand finale. And. It's. Your. Fault." With each word of his last sentence, he plunged his finger deeper into the old wound, making John gasp in pain as he tried to writhe away.

Finally, Jim withdrew his hand and rose from the bed. He tugged his suit back into order before striding to the door and yanking it open. "Sebastian, it's time."

An almost obscenely muscular man came into John's room with Sherlock tossed over his shoulder as carelessly as if he were a rucksack. He plopped Sherlock into John's desk chair before dragging a length of rope out and lashing it around the detective. Soon, Sherlock's limp form was secured to the chair, and John was thoroughly confused.

"I'm sorry, but I thought the point was to punish me. What does Sherlock have to do with this?"

Jim smiled rather broadly at that, and he began rocking back and forth on his heels in an almost gleeful fashion. "You must remember, John, that I don't like getting my hands dirty, and I find that punishment is much more effective when it is self-inflicted; it shows that you've really learned the lesson. So you're going to punish yourself, and Sherlock will be your motivation to do it properly."

With that, the man called Sebastian opened a travel case of some sort. In it were an assortment of vials and syringes. Sebastian withdrew one and filled it from a small bottle containing a cream-colored liquid. He then jabbed the needle into Sherlock's arm, causing only the slightest of movements from the detective.

"What was that? What did you just give him?" John could feel panic beginning to rise in his chest, but he attempted to squash it down for the sake of Sherlock. Panicking would not stop whatever madness Moriarty was planning.

"That, my dear John, was a slow-acting poison. At first, it does absolutely nothing. But, as time goes on, it begins to slow the heart rate. Being a doctor, you of course know what will happen if his heart rate drops too low."

Indeed he did: dizziness, fainting, loss of oxygen flow to vital organs. This meant organ failure, or, even worse, brain damage. He wouldn't allow himself to consider the possibility of death.

"What do I have to do?" John could feel his muscles finally reacting to the electrical impulses from his brain, but he didn't dare move if it meant putting Sherlock in danger.

"I was hoping you'd say that!" Jim was positively beaming as he filled up five new syringes, each from a different bottle. The liquid inside each looked identical, although John was sure that they weren't the same substance. Jim laid the five syringes on the desk next to John, all in an orderly little row. "One of these contains a mixture of the anti-toxin and adrenaline to get our dear Sherlock back to tip-top shape. The others...Well, not only will they not help Sherlock, but they also have rather dreadful side effects. It's up to you to decide which syringe I give the detective."

In one fluid motion, John sat up on the bed and drew his gun from beneath his pillow, pressing its barrel into Jim's neck while his other hand gripped the psychopath's tie and dragged him down to his level. "And what if I decide to forego all the mucking about with syringes and blow out your brains?"

Jim huffed a rather impatient sigh, losing the jovial charm he had been exuding seconds earlier. "I didn't expect you to be the paranoid, keep-a-gun-under-the-pillow type."

John gave him a bitter smile, lips pressed too tightly to show any true humor. "I've been abducted a few too many times for my liking."

"Quite so." Jim wriggled uncomfortably in an attempt to loosen John's grip on his tie. "I do get so bored of you and Sherlock waving that bloody gun in my face. You'd think you would learn that it never works. First of all, if you shoot me, Sebastian over there is going to bash your skull into the wall and then take your precious little Sherlock to some quiet warehouse to have a little fun. Secondly, even if you do manage to kill both myself and Sebastian, I can guarantee that you won't find the proper dosage of the anti-toxin for Sherlock; either too much or too little will kill him, and you don't even know which vial it is in. I believe, Johnny-boy, that you'd better play my game. Time is running short for Sherlock, and you've still got a lot of syringes to test." Jim wrestled his tie from John's loosened grip before stepping back with the confidence of a man that's got his prey completely and utterly cornered.

"You said that time is running short?"

"Oh yes, I forgot to mention that Sherlock only has an hour from the time of injection before things start to get nasty for him. He now has..." Jim glanced at his watch, "Fifty three minutes. Better make them count."

"You won't kill him. You want to keep him alive for your silly little games." John was staring at the syringes, trying to choose which he would test first. It was made all the more frustrating by the fact that, if Sherlock were conscious, he would probably know straight away which of the syringes was the correct one.

"Of course I won't let him die. Not like this, it's much too boring. But how do you think he'd feel if he suffered from brain damage? Do you think that he would cope well with a speech impediment? Or how about memory loss?"

John stared forlornly at the needles lining the table. He remembered the good old days when he was abroad getting shot at. Life was so much more simple then. He took a shaky breath before gripping the syringe on the far left and plunging it into his right arm.

As the first tremors raked their way through his body, John couldn't help but glance at the pale figure bound in the corner. He knew without a doubt that whatever came of this was worth it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author: Warnings for Jim being a twisted jerk, and John being a foul-mouthed sailor.**

John realized what was going to happen as soon as he felt his muscles start to tremble. Hoping to avoid as many bumps and bruises as possible, he rolled off his bed and onto the floor of his room. It was significantly more spacious and he was less likely to thwack his head on a hard surface there. Moriarty simply grinned down at him from atop the desk.

"I think you chose the wrong one, Johnny-boy."

John truly wanted to snap back at the bastard, but his spasming body would not allow it. He could feel his heart thudding a steady, uneven beat in his chest as he lost more and more control of himself. He didn't know if the irregular heart rate was due to whatever toxin he had injected himself with, or if it was caused by fear of what was to come. Having never experienced a seizure before, John could only rely on what he learned in med school and saw in patients to guide him. Strangely, he was most worried about the possibility of losing control of his bladder; he didn't want that bastard Jim cackling at him while he laid in his own piss.

Coherent thought quickly abandoned John as the drug took full effect. The world was reduced to sparks of color and a crushing blast of indecipherable noise. He wanted to cry out as his body ripped itself to shreds, but even the ability to breath properly had been stolen from him. He was choking, he was drowning, he was being pounded into the floor by a sledgehammer.

Even when his vision shattered into a broken mosaic of agony, he could hear Jim above him, laughing as if watching a comedy act.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Jim had to admit that the doctor was more resilient than he had first given him credit for. First, there was that whole business of him lashing out and punching Jim in the jaw a good ten minutes before he should've been able to so much as wiggle his toes. And now, here he was, sitting up and wiping the slobber off his face only two minutes after having a grand mal seizure. Jim supposed that proper motivation could do such things to a man.

"How long?"

Jim didn't even pretend to need clarification. He knew exactly where John's mind was at the moment. "Forty four minutes."

Despite looking very much as if he were suffering from seasickness, John clambered back onto the edge of the bed and thrust aside the now empty syringe. He stared listlessly at the four remaining ones before choosing the syringe on the far right. Jim had expected such an approach and was happy to see that his prediction was once again correct. He smirked as John jabbed the needle into the soft flesh of his elbow. His still-quaking hand prevented him from injecting the drug smoothly, and John was likely going to have a nasty bruise there tomorrow morning. Jim took great pleasure in being the cause of such simple pains.

John gave a small gasp as the drug took effect. He gripped his arm at the injection site, cringing in pain and unsuccessfully trying to hold back a scream. Instead of being silenced, the sound came out as a sharp whimper that made Jim break into a broad grin.

"Oooh, this one's going to be fun, isn't it, Johnny?"

Jim thought he heard the doctor grunt out "Fuck you" as he rolled into a ball on the bedspread, but he couldn't be sure. He would have to remind John to speak up during the rest of their game. He didn't want to miss a single snivel or whine.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

John was burning from the inside out. He could feel the drug coursing flames through his bloodstream, beginning at the injection site and flaring into an uncontrollable inferno throughout all his organs. He knew he was screaming, could feel his vocal chords tearing at the strain, but he couldn't stop, not when his blood was rolling tides of magma.

He dreamed of diving into a pool in the middle of winter. Of rolling in snow and being frozen in a glacier. He fantasized about a wave crashing down on him and dragging him into an artic-cold ocean, where he breathes ice water into his charred lungs and drinks it into his scorched body. He imagined tearing his heart out of his chest and locking it in an icebox so it would cease pumping that boiling liquid through his person.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

As awareness and rationality slowly returned to John, he was able to piece back together his situation. He had apparently rolled or thrown himself off the bed at some point, because he was now laying on a hard surface with his cheek pressed to the ground. Despite the fact that his veins still felt scalded and sweat had soaked through his clothing, he was shivering. He could feel tear tracks drying on the sides of his face, but he couldn't bring himself to move to wipe them away. He was afraid that moving would rekindle the flames.

" 'Ow long?" His voice was weak and rough, both side effects of screaming too loud and too long.

"Twenty seven minutes." Jim's voice was radiant, especially when compared to John's. He sounded as if he had just been given a particularly wonderful Christmas gift. "That was good, very good, John! I believe you're learning your lesson well."

John closed his eyes in an attempt to block out the psychopath's prattle. Seventeen minutes. He had lost all that time, and Sherlock was sure to suffer for it. He heaved himself up on shaking arms, but he was too weak to stand. Instead, he crawled back to the desk and grasped the nearest syringe. He wished with every fiber of his being that this was the right one, that he could stop playing this twisted game with Moriarty, but he also suspected that Jim had been rearranging the needles to ensure that the game lasted as long as he wanted it to.

As he fumbled with the plunger, John cast a glance in Sherlock's direction. The sight was not a reassuring one. The detective's skin had grown a few shades more pale, and his lips had a slightly grey tinge to them. John hoped that he would be able to select the right syringe in time. He hoped that he could end it all before Sherlock suffered the consequences of Jim's sick mind. He wasn't sure that he would be able to do it. With his stamina waning, John estimated that it would take him at least ten minutes to recuperate from each shot. Probably slightly more. This didn't leave much of a margin of error for Sherlock.

John was hardly aware of when the drug entered his system. He simply felt himself yanking the needle out of his arm with only a vague knowledge of doing so. He did, however, notice when his skin began crawling in a rather peculiar fashion. The strange tingling sensation quickly evolved into a horrible itching that made him claw at his arms violently. While terribly uncomfortable, however, John realized that, as far as tortures go, this one was not that bad. He took one last look at Sherlock before deciding what his next move would be. He once again grabbed the nearest syringe and stabbed it into himself without a second thought. The sooner he could get Sherlock the anti-toxin, the better.

John closed his eyes and laid his head back against the mattress, hoping to feel the familiar rush of adrenaline that would prove he had finally selected the correct needle. He was not so lucky. With a jolt, he felt the world begin to tilt on its axis, making him cry out and grip the mattress to keep from sliding into the wall. His breathing quickened as the room flipped itself over, causing him to clutch onto his purchase with white-knuckled force. He had just enough focus of mind to shove the last remaining syringe towards Jim, stuttering out a demand that he give it to Sherlock. He didn't see whether it was administered or not as the room spun sickeningly around him, and he lost his grip on the bed and dropped into the swirling vortex.

He found when the room stilled that he had landed atop his bed once again. Only it wasn't right, nothing was right. The walls pitched inward, nearly falling onto him and crushing him to death. They seemed to always creak backwards at the last possible moment, leaving him cringing against his pillows in terror of certain death. He tried to leap up and get to the door to escape, but the sheets lashed out and gripped him in a fanged mouth, tripping him and dragging him back to the bed. He fought against them, but his flailing was useless against their serpentine grasp. They wrapped about his torso, choking the oxygen out of his lungs. He gripped the headboard and attempted to pull himself out of their binding. Instead, his hand plunged into a nest of tiny spiders, and they began crawling across his flesh and plunging their miniscule fangs into his skin. He cried out and began clawing viciously at them in an attempt to rip himself free of their sting. No matter how many he managed to tear out of himself, however, hundreds, no, thousands more poured out of the nest and onto his body. He gave a petrified sob, but this simply allowed the swarm of arachnids to tumble into his mouth. John spat and coughed and screamed as he felt them tearing into the tender flesh of his mouth, and yet they still remained. He was helpless against the onslaught as their venom dragged him under.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"You know, John, you've proven to be a lot more fun than I originally thought. I never once considered the possibility that you would inject yourself with two of the toxins at once. I must say, the results are rather pleasing." Jim's voice pierced through the blackened fog to which John had escaped. "I'll have to keep this in mind the next time we play this game."

John's coated mouth wouldn't allow him to speak clearly, but he was still gratified to know that he could still make a sound of a sort.

"I'm sorry, what was that you said, Johnny-boy? It's awfully hard to understand you when you mumble like that."

"Said...Shut the fuck up." Apparently John had bitten through his tongue at some point or another. He could taste the metallic bite of blood in his mouth, and the hand he wiped across his face came back smeared with crimson.

"That's much better, Johnny. Although, I'm afraid that I couldn't understand you completely earlier. I did my best to obey what you said, but I may have misheard you. To me, it sounded like you said, "Refill these for me." I don't know why you would have wanted them refilled, but here you go!" Jim beamed at John as he held up three fully filled needles. Not understanding, John sat up and let his eyes dart to the desk. Only two empty syringes remained.

"No..." John didn't know whether to cry or lunge for Moriarty's throat at that moment. He felt exhausted, defeated, and, above all else, infuriated. "No, you fucking bastard, no!" He surged towards Jim in an effort to lay hands on him, to choke him, to crush his windpipe with his bare hands and then stab _him_ with those godforsaken needles, but John simply pitched forward and hit the ground with a dull thud. It was then that he noticed how badly his arm hurt, as if it had been torn open. He writhed into a sitting position and gave himself a good looking over. He could see many bruises blossoming across his skin, the worst of which was the already violently colored one in the crook of his elbow. His eyes trailed farther up that same arm and found the source of his discomfort. There, he had apparently clawed particularly viciously at the skin, for his arm was ripped open in multiple ragged cuts, the kind of cuts that only fingernails could inflict. He cringed at the sight, at the renewed fear of what he had experienced. His gut twisted as he realized that he was in no condition to resist Moriarty, and he knew without a doubt that he would be forced to replay the game.

"How much time?"

Jim looked like he might burst with glee. He glanced at his watch for only a moment before responding, "Thirteen minutes."

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath before snatching the three syringes from Jim's grip. He jabbed the first one into his arm and waited only a few seconds before the burning sensation began to creep through his veins once again. Quickly, before he lost the ability to focus, he plunged the second one into his skin. He was rewarded with a sudden increase in his heart rate and a jitteriness in his fingers. He knew this would only served to make the first toxin work through his body more quickly, but he was glad to have discovered Sherlock's savior on only his second guess. He held the empty syringe out to Jim and said, as slowly and clearly as possible despite the cut tongue and multiple toxins in his system, "Refill this and give it to Sherlock."

Jim's smile twisted into a scowl as he wrenched the empty syringe from John and refilled it from the proper vial. He paused as he held the needle over Sherlock's exposed arm, glancing to the floor where John was beginning to pant and writhe. "How about you two take your medicine together, then? He gets this if you give yourself the last one."

Jim may have been pleasantly grinning, but his eyes were filled with malice. John knew that he was helpless against Jim's sadistic whims, so he simply raised the final syringe and plunged it into his arm, watching as Moriarty did the same with Sherlock. "Let...me...see..." John dragged himself across the floor and next to Sherlock's chair. Reaching a quivering arm up to the pallid man, he gripped his wrist and sighed as he felt the pulse steadily increasing in speed. Good.

John gave a miserable cry and collapsed to the floor as he felt the second toxin take hold. He curled in around himself, no longer able to ignore the flames licking at his insides. He was only dimly aware of tremors increasing in magnitude until they hit a violent crescendo. His screams were reduced to weak sobs as his body began to tear itself apart once again.

This time, he was certain that he was going to piss himself. Damn.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author: I am very sorry for tormenting John so. I promise that Moriarty is leaving after this chapter, and we can (sort of) go back to John and Sherlock happy fun times. Until then, thank you all for tolerating this, and I hope I haven't scared you off. Same warnings as last chapter apply.**

As John came to, he was aware of two facts: first of all, he had not pissed himself, and, secondly, he had vomited on himself. He considered this a fair trade-off and was willing to offer thanks to the Big Man for that one. He supposed that he should also offer thanks for not being dead, but he wasn't particularly thrilled with this state of being at the moment. Something about waking up covered in blood and vomit will do that to a man.

"Are you awake now, Johnny? You took quite the nap, didn't you?" Polished shoes trailed into John's line of sight before Jim stooped down to peer into John's eyes. "You're not looking well at all. I think you need to go back to bed for a bit."

"Piss off."

"You know, John, that's the second time you've told me to do that, and it really hurts. Hurts me right here." Jim placed a thin hand onto his chest, gesturing at his heart. John couldn't refrain from rolling his eyes. "You better watch what you say; I might decide not to forgive you after all."

Unable to think of a remark that wouldn't further provoke the madman, John simply began the painful struggle to get back on his own two feet. He managed to get on his hands and knees before his strength fled him and he fell back onto his side.

"Oh, John, if you want help, all you have to do is ask. What are friends for, after all? Sebastian!" Once again, the walking meat patty stepped into the room, wrinkling his nose at the mess John had made on the floor. "Would you be a dear and help Johnny-boy get to the shower? Then you can clean up the carpet for him."

If he was displeased with his orders, Sebastian didn't show it. He simply hauled John off the floor and through the passageway into the bathroom. John was then unceremoniously stripped of his shirt and pants and thrust into a freezing stream of water. He didn't much mind, though; the cold began to numb the aches and pains that covered seemingly every inch of his flesh. As he became less aware of the pain, however, John became more aware of the sluggish functionality of his brain. He was fumbling to even pick up a washcloth, and he couldn't for the life of him remember if he was supposed to use shampoo or conditioner first. Having two products to put in his hair seemed a bit silly anyway, so he finally decided to just scrub at it with his fingers and hope he didn't muck it up too much. He was relieved that soaping proved much more simple, and he was able to finish up his shower without too much hassle.

He stepped out of the shower and onto the cold tile, leaving the water running because the knobs proved much too complex for his clouded mind. He supposed that he should be worried about all this, but really the only emotion he could muster from beneath the exhaustion was a sort of agitation at not having seen Sherlock yet. He figured that he went through all that to help the detective, he should at least be able to see if it had worked.

As John wrapped his body in a towel, he had the rather peculiar thought that he should've taken Douglas Adams' advice and kept his towel on hand at all times. If he had, perhaps he could've used it to strangle Moriarty, or at least to wipe some of the filth off himself as it accumulated, instead of having to wash it all off in a freezing shower. He was acutely aware of the absurdity of this thought as the room began to pitch sideways. He staggered in the opposite direction in an attempt to even things out, but that just made him lose his footing and pitch forward. He heard more than felt the crack of his head against the counter top as his feet slipped from beneath him.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Cold water was sliding down his cheek and pooling at his collar bone. At least, it was cold, and he was assuming it was water. Awfully hard to tell these things with utter certainty with one's eyes closed. He knew he ought to open them, but he much preferred the black of his eye lids to what he was sure was going to be a bright, jarring outside-his-eye-lids.

"John dear, can you hear me?" That voice sounded so soft. John wanted to nuzzle into it and let it into the darkness with him. He didn't fully understand why the gentle sing-song of it made his heart begin to beat faster, but he was sure he would figure it out eventually. Like when he didn't understand how babies were made, but then, over time, he sorted it out for himself. With the help of a few lewd jokes from Harry, of course.

Maybe Mr. Soft Voice would make a lewd joke and help John understand.

"Wake up, John. You have to wake up now! I won't let you ruin my plans, not a second time." John's calm inside-the-eye-lids world was shattered as hands gripped his shoulders and began shaking him violently. He gasped in pain as the motion set off a jackhammer in his skull, and his eyes flew open involuntarily. He heard a sigh of relief and the blurry figure in front of him relaxes his grip on John's shoulders. "Oh, good, you're awake." He said it as casually as if he hadn't been inducing shaken baby syndrome in a full-grown man moments ago. The damp cloth returned to dabbing at the side of John's head, and another hand stroked down the exposed skin of John's stomach. The motion raised goose flesh across John's body.

"What plan?" At least John's mouth made more sense than his brain.

"Hm? Oh yes, the plan. Well, that's for later, Johnny-boy. But I do need you alive for it to work out. Sebastian was a naughty boy for leaving you in there alone. He should've known that you'd be less than operational."

Suddenly, the man's voice collided with John's memories, and he finally recognized the man sitting beside himself. John tried to writhe away, but just twisting his neck made him gasp in pain and sent his stomach in acrobatics that would've made Dick Grayson jealous. Instead, he settled for a harsh grunt that almost sounded a bit like the intended words, "Get off me."

Jim's laugh filled the room and caused John's frustration to escalate. "Well, I'm glad to see that your mind is returning to you, Doctor. I'm afraid that you've gotten a bit of a concussion, along with whatever addled state the drugs have left you in. Terribly sorry about that." John knew from the smirk that was twisting Jim's mouth that he wasn't. In light of his present situation, however, he decided to leave it be.

"Sh-Sherlock?" The single word seemed like too much for John, and he hoped that he had spoken it clearly enough to not have to try and repeat himself. He was sure that he would fail epically in that endeavor.

"He's fine." Jim gave an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. "He's just resting on his sofa once again, same as when we found him. Did it ever cross your mind to be worried about yourself? About the fact that you could very well die today?"

Blinking at the psychopath as if he had spoken gibberish, John fumbled for more words. He finally decided to go with the most clever response he had conjured and said, "No."

"Terrible, just terrible." Moriarty shook his head while giving John a mock pitying look. "You must take better care of yourself. Like with that psychosomatic limp of yours. I know it hurts you, but you never mention it to Sherlock for fear that he'll simply mock your intelligence for having a make-believe leg wound."

Jim's hand reached down and ghosted over John's right leg, precisely over the location that most commonly caused John pain. He winced as the fingers slid over his pajama bottoms (he didn't even want to think about how he got into those), caressing the tender flesh below. "I can help, you know." Jim's black-as-sin eyes crept upwards, locking onto John's with a sort of simmering intensity. "I can make it so he never forgets how hurt you are. So, when he sees you, he'll always remember that you saved his life. I can do that favor for you, John. You don't even have to ask. What are friends for?"

Jim shifted positions so that he was sitting behind John, and John was leaning back against his chest. John could hear the steady thud of Moriarty's heart behind him, a heart that he wished so badly would just stop beating, even if only long enough to leave the brilliantly psychotic mind it fueled shriveled and less-than-fully functional. He closed his eyes in an attempt to end the waves of nausea that were crashing down upon him, and as he did so, he felt slender fingers curling through his hair. They remained like that for a while, John resting against Jim as the second man petted and stroked his hair, until Jim's hand darted to the side and grabbed a small bottle from the desk. He popped it open using his thumb and shook something out into John's hand. Upon closer inspection, John realized that it was a pill.

"No." He tried pressing it back into Jim's hand, but he was much too weak to beat anyone in matters of force.

"I suggest you take it, John. The next bit will hurt a lot more if you don't."

"What do you mean?"

Jim heaved a sigh as if John were a particularly irksome child. "I mean, that solving your problem with the psychosomatic limp is going to be incredibly painful, but it will be less so if you take that pill."

"I don't want it solved. It's not a problem." John was glad to realize that his thoughts seemed to gain some clarity in light of danger.

"Oh, yes it is. And besides, this was all part of the plan in the first place. You know, the plan that you mucked up? I'm going to shoot you tonight one way or another, you may as well take the damn pill and make it more pleasant for yourself." Jim took the pill from the palm of John's hand and pressed it to his lips. Resigned, John opened his mouth and allowed the pill to be placed on his tongue. He swallowed it with a growing sense of apprehension.

Reaching onto the desk, Jim grasped John's abandoned pistol and slipped it into the doctor's right hand. John clenched his hand reflexively around it, dreading what was to come next but completely unable to stop it. He was dimly aware of a dull buzzing in his head that informed him that the drug was beginning to take effect. He was also surprised by the way the room gained sharper focus, as if he had been viewing through a thick layer of plastic beforehand, and now it had been removed and he was seeing the sharp edges of objects for the first time. He gave a slight gasp as the cool metal was directed to his leg, Jim propelling John's motions forward with his own hand. He was surprised when the air he inhaled tasted strangely familiar. It was tinted with the scent of blood, gun powder, and sand. His heart stuttered at the memory of it, and he tensed against Jim's body.

"Wh-What else was in that pill?"

"Just a mild hallucinogenic, nothing to be worried about." Jim's lips brushed against the back of John's neck as he spoke the words, causing a shiver to run through John's spine. Suddenly, John was terrified.

"Please, Jim, no. I don't want...Please...Oh, god, no..." His head rolled back against Jim's shoulder as sobs began to heave in his chest. He felt Jim's finger curl against his own, ever so slowly forcing the trigger backwards.

Stroking John's hair with his free hand, Jim gently pressed a kiss to the back of John's neck, loving the choked sob it drew from the man. He had the ex-army doctor in pieces, and he hadn't even pulled the trigger yet. The experience was more exciting that Jim could've ever imagined, and he thought that, if getting your hands dirty could be this fun, perhaps he would do it more often in the future. "It's fine, John. It will all be fine..." His words trailed off as he pressed on John's finger more firmly, causing the doctor to fully compress the trigger.

There was a click.

Then a bang.

Then a splatter of blood.

Jim rose from the bed and strode out of the room, signaling to Sebastian that their work there was done.

**Author: Sorry, sorry, so sorry! I feel terribly for doing this to John, but it was completely necessary for the plot of the story. I hope you all will forgive me, and continue to enjoy the story.**


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock struggled from beneath layers of sleep slowly. Instead of bursting into the waking world as a flame of energy, as usual, he heaved himself through swamps and fogs of shadowy slumber until his eyes opened and the outside world greeted him. It seemed too bright, too radiant for his befuddled mind, so he blocked it out for a while longer, allowing himself to drift on the soft eddies of near-unconsciousness.

After finally dragging himself from the sofa, Sherlock meandered into the kitchen in search of some form of caffeine. He was disappointed to find that, although they had plenty of tea, their milk had long since expired. He was only momentarily perturbed, deciding that the best course of action was to sit and yell until Mrs. Hudson came to investigate what was going on in the flat. He knew that he could've simply sent John out to the store, but he didn't think he could wait that long for relief from the weights that were once again trying to drag him back to sleep. He was just about to begin his shouting when he heard a thunk come from above. Concerned that John was having yet another nightmare, Sherlock frowned and rose from his seat on the sofa. It wasn't unusual for John to suffer from multiple such episodes, especially following a particularly gruesome case. Given the rather sizeable accumulation of bodies during this last case, Sherlock supposed that this one fell into the "gruesome" category, sub heading: "massacre." He really couldn't blame John for having such dreams, even if he did firmly believe that the doctor could try harder to prevent them.

He wandered up the stairs, contemplating the pros and cons of just curling into the bed with John once he got up there. On one hand, John seemed to sleep better when he had some company, and Sherlock found his room a pleasant alternative to the cluttered mess that was his own. On the other, Sherlock had woken up on multiple occasions by being struck by John, and he didn't particularly want to relive the experience for the dozenth time. There were only so many bloody noses a man could tolerate before realizing the limits of his welcome. He had the sinking feeling that he was decidedly un-welcome in John's bed.

He lightly tapped on the door, subconsciously rubbing his arm as he did so. When he didn't hear any response from within the room, he decided that he'd better check on John, just in case. He pushed the door open and was promptly struck on the shoulder, causing him to gasp and stumble. He was forced further onto the ground as more blows rained down from above, relentlessly striking Sherlock's unprotected back while the detective wrapped his arms around his head to protect it from being hit. Once Sherlock felt the tide of strikes slowing, he quickly rolled onto his back so he could get a good look at his opponent and fight back. He was shocked by what he saw when he did so.

"John! What in bloody hell are you doing?"

The doctor was looming overhead, prepared to deal another blow to Sherlock's person when the remark cut into his fury. He stood, looking utterly perplexed for a moment before hardening his lips into a grim line. "So you speak English. Good. It'll make the interrogation easier." With that, John grabbed a length of rope that had been laying on the floor and began trussing Sherlock up.

"What are you talking about? Of course I speak English! I'd be a damn fool not to, considering I live in England." Sherlock attempted to wriggle away from John and his rope, but the military man simply pressed his foot into Sherlock's sternum, effectively restricting the detective's ability to breathe or move. Unable to make further protests concern his abuse, Sherlock began to look John over closely in order to discern the cause of his irrational behavior. The mental catalog he created was very worrisome, indeed.

Eyes: Pupils blown wide, nearly obscuring the ring of blue surrounding them. Head: Oozing wound to the right temple, bloody mouth. Right arm: Multiple track marks, extensive bruising, swallow cuts. Right leg: Bound wound of some sort, likely a bullet wound, given the gun tucked into the waistband of John's pajamas. Torso and other extremities: Extensive bruising, scratch marks.

Summary: Severe concussion, drugged, possibly beaten, most likely unaware of his surroundings. In danger of bleeding out, suffering brain swelling, and/or experiencing seizures. Prognosis: Bleak.

By the time Sherlock had finished his preliminary once-over of John, the doctor had bound his hands together quite securely, and he was being hauled back down the stairs into the lounge. Sherlock turned his head to get a better look at John's leg, hoping to determine the exact location of the bullet wound by John's gait and weight distribution upon the injured limb. Obviously, it had not struck the femoral artery, or John would not be on his feet, much less breathing, at the moment. Sherlock was pleased to see that John had found his old cane and was using it to help himself walk; this meant that he was at least cognizant of the pain. He deduced that the bullet had gone through John's thigh slightly above the knee and exited at an upwards angle. This was a peculiar trajectory, to say the least, and Sherlock was becoming increasingly more frustrated at his lack of knowledge concerning the events leading up to his present situation.

He was plopped onto the ground in the center of the lounge. John quickly tied the loose end of the rope to the back of the chair in which he had sat Sherlock before he himself settled into his usual armchair with a stifled groan of pain. Sherlock hoped that the increasing pain would snap John out of whatever hallucination he was experiencing, but he had no such luck. In fact, John simply pulled out his gun and pointed it at Sherlock's chest.

"Why are you here, and to whom are you reporting?" John's eyes looked eerie, what with the dilated pupils and cold, hard stare he had fixed on Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed, trying to determine what the best approach to getting out of this situation un-riddled with holes would be. He suspected that protesting John's "reality" would not end well for either party, so he decided to try playing along with John's delusion. He always had enjoyed acting, and, if not for the fact that it required an inordinate amount of socializing with the dim-witted masses, he would have looked into it as a career choice. Of course, being the world's only consulting detective was far more stimulating, and it allowed him to do pretty well whatever he pleased.

"I was sent to infiltrate your encampment. My commander is...uh...General Mycroft." Really, as long as he played his cards carefully, this could turn out very interesting. He had never known John to take on a full military man persona, and he was eager to see how vastly his personality changed in a total-combat situation. He wondered if John would maintain the moral high ground which had come to define him so thoroughly during their service together.

John blinked at him, the gun dropping several inches such that it was pointed at the floor. He look thoroughly confused. "You're not very good at this, are you?"

"I'm bloody awful at it, really. The shoddiest spy you'll ever meet, I suspect." Sherlock threw John a disarming smile, hoping to encourage him to notice the absurdity of the situation. He thought that the easiest way to snap John out of it would be to challenge his perceptions in as many subtle ways as possible. "Say, can you tell me exactly where we are? General Mycroft wasn't very forthcoming with such information."

"Oh. Um...I dunno if I should...My commander might not approve..." John was suddenly looking very uneasy, his eyes darting all around the room as if he suspected an ambush at any moment.

"Ah. Well, by all means, you can ask your commander before telling me. Where is he? In fact, where is everyone else? Surely you're not here alone, are you?"

John's face paled and the gun was brought back up to point at Sherlock's chest once again. Apparently, pointing out that a soldier was all alone at his outpost was not the best tactic. Sherlock made himself visibly relax in his bonds, attempting to appear as non-threatening as possible."Hey, hey. It's not a problem if your general is too busy to talk to you right now. We can talk, just you and I. What else do you want to know?"

"Where are you from? You sound awfully...British." John's posture had relaxed a bit, but the gun still hadn't dropped to a non-menacing position.

"Yes. I was raised in London, but I defected to General Mycroft's side after he offered me a generous sum of money."

"He's _paying _you for this?" John appeared as if he might burst out laughing at the detective. Sherlock was rather put off by this; even when delusional, John should know that, if Sherlock wanted to be a good spy, he could very well do it.

"Well, he's not paying me for my espionage work, per se. I believe that he's paying me to not be near his camp. I might have been more bother than I'm worth." Sherlock gave John his sweet as honey smile once again, and he was gratified to note that it had the same effect as it had the last time he used it. John's pistol dropped so it was only loosely held in his grasp once again.

"What training do you have?"

"I am self-trained in advanced deduction making."

"What?"

"I observe people and make deductions concerning what I observe."

"Really? And they pay you to do that?"

"Of course. It comes in quite handy sometimes."

"Like when?"

"Like now. I can deduce that, if you do not receive medical attention soon, you are going to pass out from blood loss. Don't you think you ought to call the medics for that?" Sherlock gestured at John's leg, hoping that this wasn't one of those touchy subjects that would set John off again.

John simply looked down at himself with a grim clenching of his jaw. "I am the medic."

"Can't you call some one from another base?"

"On what phone? Even you should be able to see that the camp's been blown to pieces. I'll be lucky if I can find a functional hot plate!" John pushed himself up from his chair with an agitated huff and began pacing the length of the lounge, his limp significantly more severe now. Sherlock wished he could force John to sit once again, force him to see the reality of his situation. Sick of sitting still, Sherlock began writhing against his bonds in an attempt to find a weak spot in the knots. All the while, he kept his eyes on John.

He was quite the sight at the moment. Sherlock had never suspected that so much muscle lay beneath John's slightly absurd but endearing jumpers. He wasn't beefy, exactly, but there was tone to be seen. For once, Sherlock almost understood what a man like John had been doing in Afghanistan in the first place; he was currently exuding a calm confidence that showed he was perfectly accustomed to being in stressful situations. Sherlock supposed that was why John was so good at coping with his eccentricies. The only thing that belied John's internal tension was the way his tongue kept darting out of his mouth to lick his lips. Every few minutes, Sherlock could see the little pink tip protrude momentarily from his mouth, as it so often did when they were heading into danger together while on a case.

Suddenly, Sherlock couldn't hold back his frustration at the situation, at seeing John's energy and life waning before his very eyes and being completely unable to help, unable to stop the torment. Having found a weak point in his bonds, he began furiously tugging at it, exploiting its failing. He felt a cry of rage simmering in his chest, but he didn't dare make a sound for fear of setting John off. He hated this; he hated feeling helpless, out of control. He had no clue what had happened to John while he was unconscious, and the uncertainty was devouring him. He always had the answers, damn it! He was Sherlock Holmes, for chirst's sake! It was his job to look at people, to dissemble them with a glance, and yet he had no fathoming of what had left John so broken. It was possibly the most important mystery he had ever been given, but he couldn't even break loose to get a good look at the clues that had been left him.

Just as Sherlock felt the ropes breaking beneath his straining against them, a thunder-clap loud blast filled the apartment from the kitchen. John whirled around and began firing at the disturbance, effectively shattering a stack of dishes, blowing a hole the window, and destroying several cabinets. Sherlock counted eight gun shots.

Once things had quietened down, John's arm dropped to his side and a hollow look settled into his eyes. "What in bloody hell was that?"

Sherlock had to force himself to repress a groan. Of all the times for one of his experiments to finally react..."Would you believe me if I said that it was an experiment concerning the effects of introducing explosive agents into high-pressure environments, such as sealed glass jars?"

John blinked at him disbelievingly. "You know, at this point, I don't know what to think." John turned and limped back towards Sherlock, and the detective was glad to note that the dilation in his eyes seemed to have been reduced a bit. How strange that something such as an explosion could cause John to start to return to reality. Sherlock supposed that this was for the best, because he was sure that the explosion had finally alerted Mycroft to the fact that something wasn't right in the flat, and his brother's men would surely be coming in to check on them soon. Sherlock could feel relief begin to settle over him as he foresaw the end of the ordeal.

"John, I think you should sit down."

"Yes, that's probably for the best." For the best, indeed. John looked as if he was about to topple at any moment. He limped back towards his arm chair, and he was about to settle back in when the door abruptly burst open and a flood of officers poured into the flat. Sherlock groaned and slumped his head in frustration. Of course, the cavalry would arrive in the most disruptive manner possible. John reacted in a manner completely unexpected, actually. Instead of shooting at the coppers, he dragged Sherlock up from the chair and thrust him to his knees on the floor, pressing the gun directly to Sherlock's temple. He looked down at the detective with an expression that could only be described as utter terror. "You told them?"

"What? No! I didn't tell anyone anything. They're just...um...they're...What _are _you doing here, Lestrade?" Sherlock glared at the Detective Inspector and the two incompetents on each side of him. Of course Donovan would be involved in this.

"We received a tip from Mycroft. He said that his security detail had picked up some suspicious activity, and he wanted us to check it out." His eyes darted from where Sherlock was kneeling on the floor to where John was standing, gun still pointed firmly at the detective. John was tensed to the point of looking statuesque.

"Who are you?" John re-adjusted his grip on the pistol, fingers trembling against the cold metal.

"What are you talking about, John? It's Lestrade. Are you okay?" The detective inspector stepped forwards, arms reaching out to grasp John's trembling shoulders as he pitched sideways. John, however, simply cocked the gun and fired directly between Lestrade's legs, narrowly missing.

"Don't. Just, don't. Nobody comes closer or...Or..." John spun his attention back to Sherlock, pushing the gun back to his temple.

"John, let's be reasonable..." Lestrade looked completely lost. His eyes kept darting back to Sherlock as if looking for some sort of direction as to what he should do.

Sherlock shrugged and gave Lestrade a c'est la vie sort of glance. "I believe we should do as the man holding the gun says." He hoped that Lestrade would be able to control his army of idiots long enough for the situation to resolve itself.

Obviously, he could not. Sally stepped forward next to Lestrade, raising her own firearm. "John, that's enough. Put the gun down _now."_ She cocked her weapon menacingly.

John was beginning to panic. Sherlock could see it in the way his eyes had widened and his breathing was coming out in sharp huffs. His hand had stopped trembling, which did not bode well for Sherlock, and was a sure sign that he was preparing to fire. "Step. Back. Now." John's voice held steady despite the pallor of his face and the terror obvious in the rest of his features.

Donovan ignored John's warning and stepped ever closer, her own fingers tightening around the trigger of her gun. "No. Drop your weapon, John. Be sensible."

"Sally..." Lestrade's warning was weak as he tried to halt a quickly escalating catastrophe. He knew that things had gotten out of his control long before John tightened his finger against the trigger of his pistol.

The familiar snap of a trigger being released filled the room.

Followed by sharp screams.

Followed by a resounding silence.

John blinked down at his gun, momentarily stunned by the waves of awareness crashing down on him, threatening to drag him into blackened waters.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

His eyes sought out those of the detective, desperately searching for the blue-grey orbs that would make everything okay.

He found them.

Sherlock looked up at John's paste-white face and couldn't help but let out a relieved laugh. "Are you back with us, John?"

John just stammered out an incomprehensible reply and stumbled towards Sherlock. Abruptly, his eyes grew wide and he gave a strangled cry as he pitched forwards. Despite still having his wrists awkwardly half-bound, Sherlock lunged out and cushioned John's fall before he struck the ground. The detective quickly rolled John into his lap, cradling his head in the crook of his own elbow. His eyes darted over the doctor, searching for the cause of his sudden decline. He found it in the form of Sally's taser. He glared daggers at the moron, guaranteeing her a thorough dressing-down later before he turned his attention back to John.

The doctor's eyes were rolling back in his head, but it was obvious that he was making a concerted effort to stay conscious. "Sherlock...You need...doctor..." His head lolled in Sherlock's arms, and Sherlock had to gently shake him to bring him back around.

"John, I need to know what happened. Did someone do this to you? What did they do?"

"Jim...Came here...You could be...hurt."

Sherlock scowled, frustrated at the way John's mind only seemed to have one track at the moment. "What about you, John? What did he do to you?"

"Shot me." John gave a low groan, his back stiffening as he rode out another current of torment. He gripped Sherlock's hand and dug his nails into the tender flesh as he fought against unconsciousness. Sherlock could see that it was a losing battle. John's eyes rolled closed and he collapsed against Sherlock's lap, his fingers still entangled in the detective's.

When he was certain that John was not going to be coming around again, Sherlock looked back up at the officers with a fierce gleam in his eyes. He turned his rage upon Donovan, spitting his wrath at her. "How dare you? You incompetent moron! You could've killed him. Oh sure, let's just shoot the drugged, concussed man with a bolt of electricity and have a good laugh while he seizes on the floor or goes into cardiac arrest! Why on earth they let dense fools such as yourself on the force, I have no clue."

Lestrade cleared his throat in an effort to stop the tirade. "Come on, Sherlock. She was just trying to help. He was going to shoot you, after all."

"No, he was not. If you took any time whatsoever to observe the clues that are obviously around you, you would've known that."

"Okay. Do tell, Sherlock. What genius bit of information were we not privy to this time? What, did the twitch in his left eye tell you that he didn't have proper motivation to blow your brains across the wall? Or was it the hole in the toe of his sock that told you?"

Sherlock scoffed at the detective inspector, his attention only partially on the man as he brushed his fingers through John's hair. "Of course not. I was a simple matter of counting. The clip in his gun only holds ten bullets. He fired eight in the kitchen, one between your legs, and, at some point, one in his own leg. Therefore, he didn't have any bullets left to fire at me."

Lestrade gaped at Sherlock, his mouth opening and closing in shock. "That didn't leave much room for error, Sherlock. What if you miscounted?"

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked as if Lestrade had just uttered the most ridiculous stream of drivel to be spoken. "I didn't, obviously, and I'm quite capable of counting properly, Lestrade. Now would you please stop asking such inane questions? Is the ambulance on its way?"

"Yes," Lestrade sighed, knowing that arguing with Sherlock would be pointless at this moment. "I believe it will be pulling up any second now."

"Good. I'll ride with John to the hospital, and then I'll come back to help in the investigation when he is stable."

"I don't think that is necessary, Sherlock." Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. It was going to be awkward enough sifting through the detective's flat without him hanging over the entire operation. "John did mention that you would need to see the doctor, too."

Sherlock shrugged as if an irksome fly was buzzing around his ear. "That can wait."

"Sherlock..."

"It can wait!" Sherlock dropped his head, glaring into his lap. He took a few deep breaths before looking back up at Lestrade. "I need to know. I need to know what in the hell that bastard did, and I can't just sit in some hospital and wait for you fools to tell me. I just...I have to know."

**Author: Thank you all for the ridiculously great reviews. I'm terribly sorry for all the torturous cliffies I've left leading up to now, but I hope this makes it all better.**


	10. Chapter 10

Lestrade was quite correct in saying that the ambulance would be there any minute; only a few moments after finishing his tirade against the Detective Inspector's force, Sherlock heard the door burst open and the sound of a gurney coming up the stairs. The room was quickly flooded by yammering strangers with shiny little tools, and Sherlock felt himself being abruptly thrust away from John as the paramedics descended upon their patient. Slightly perturbed by his sudden loss of usefulness, Sherlock stood to the side and watched as John was loaded onto the gurney. His attention didn't waver from the prone form until Lestrade sidled up next to Sherlock and cleared his throat.

"You might want to get your coat and shoes. It's a bit nippy out tonight."

Sherlock looked down at his sock-feet and sighed. His room was out of sight of the lounge, and he didn't want to leave John's side until he was satisfied that he would be alright. Nevertheless, he dashed into his room leaving strict instructions for no one to leave until he got back. Jamming his feet into his shoes was a more trying task than it ought to have been, and Sherlock was frustrated by the waste of time. He didn't even bother with the laces, opting to just stumble back into the lounge only slightly less disheveled than he had been before. He nodded at the paramedics, and in a miniature swarm they left 221b.

John was connected to a variety of monitors once in the ambulance, small tubes and wires threading into and around his body in an almost artistic arrangement. What concerned Sherlock most was the small bleeps issuing from the heart monitor. They had no regular discernable pattern; instead, John's heart seemed to be speeding up and slowing down at an alarming rate. The detective suspected that this had to do with whatever toxins had been injected into John's bloodstream. Clearly, they were not interacting well with one another. Sherlock counted seven track marks on John's elbow, and another in his bicep. This left the possibility of eight disparate drugs working their way through the doctor's system. The paramedics had apparently come to the same conclusion as himself, because they were drawing copious amounts of blood samples for testing.

Sherlock was drawn out of his medical deductions by the sound of a weak gasp coming from the head of John's stretcher. He looked up to see watery blue eyes peering down at him. "Shrlk?"

Cursing his mother once again for her peculiar taste in names, Sherlock leaned closer to John, gripping his hand once again. "I'm here, John. We're on the way to the hospital now. Everything's going to be fine."

"M'leg..." John's voice was nothing more than a weak croak. He looked so pale and vulnerable as fear became evident in his features once again. "Can't feel it..."

Sherlock couldn't help letting his eyes dart down to glance at the wounded leg. The paramedics had removed John's home binding and cut away his pajama pants to reveal the gaping hole. Sherlock forced himself not to react outright, even though he suspected that John wouldn't notice anything more subtle than turning aside and vomiting. Instead, he forced his gaze back to meet John's and gave a reassuring smile. "Perfectly normal. They gave you some pretty strong painkillers. I would be surprised if you could feel anything below your hips." It was a lie, but Sherlock believed that the situation called for one.

"Oh." John's head rolled back against the gurney, and for a moment Sherlock thought that he had passed out once again. His assumption was proven false when John's hand tightened its grip in Sherlock's, and he looked up at the detective with a fevered sort of intensity. "Don't let them amputate it, Sherlock. I need it. Need it so I can run after you and cabs and bombers and-and stuff. Just don't let them, please. Please, Sherlock?"

"John, I-" John's heart rate monitor had accelerated to an alarming speed, and John's whole body had begun to shake. Sherlock understood what such stress could do to a concussed person, and none of it was good. He quickly pressed his free hand up to John's face, stroking his fingers along his skin. "Hey, hey. Calm down. Everything's going to be fine. It's all fine. I'm going to let them do whatever is necessary to make sure you stay with me, okay? You just have to trust them to do their job, and me to watch out for you. Alright? Just relax. Can you do that for me?"

John took a couple of slow, deep breaths and nodded. He looked worn and frayed, soft and beaten. Sherlock felt his chest tighten as he tried to imagine what Moriarty had done to cause this.

"John, can you tell me what happened? Do you remember?"

John nodded once again and anxiously licked his lips, closing his eyes as he tried to gather the energy to tell Sherlock at least a succinct version of the night's events. He knew that explaining the whole ordeal would take much too much time; he could already feel his mind trying to burrow back into the pleasantly void recesses of his skull, and he didn't think he could fight off the pending wave of exhaustion much longer. Instead, he chose the less complicated, abbreviated version of the story. Enough to satisfy Sherlock's need for knowledge, that is all.

"He had five drugs, one right and four wrong. The right was a mixture of adrenaline and an anti-toxin. The others caused seizures, a burning sort of pain, extreme itchiness, and hallucinations. I had two doses of the first two, and I fell and got a concussion. Jim shot me." John's jaw clenched as he began to relive the ordeal, began to feel those flames licking at his insides once again, feel himself losing control and breaking into pieces.

"It's okay, John. It's over now. You don't have to think about it; just go back to sleep now, okay?" Sherlock threaded his fingers through John's hair, careful not to come too close to the rather large and oozing bruise on the right temple. John sighed and leaned into the touch, allowing himself to drift away. Once Sherlock was sure that he was unconscious once again, he leaned back against the wall of the ambulance and steepled his fingers underneath his chin. He knew that he hadn't gotten the full story, but even the fragmented pieces he had received didn't make much sense. Why had Moriarty struck out at John? What had caused John to play along? How did Moriarty manage to break into the flat unnoticed? What had been done with Sherlock during all this?

As they pulled up to the emergency entrance of the hospital, Sherlock resigned himself to the fact that these questions were going to have to go unanswered for now. He wasn't going to leave until he knew for certain that John's life wasn't at risk, and that was going to take a while.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Sherlock had been sitting in the waiting room for slightly over an hour before the first of the well-wishers began to trickle in. Lestrade stopped by on his way back to the Yard. Apparently, they had finished their preliminary investigation, which essentially amount to nil at the moment. Sherlock assured him that John had been doing as well as could be expected the last time he had been given news, and that he would be back at the flat as soon as he could. Lestrade protested his involvement in the investigation once again, but Sherlock waved him off.

Mike came a bit later after he finished his last class for the night. He had heard that John was in the OR from another physician in the on-call room, and had come down to gather more information. He cringed as Sherlock described the leg wound, a gesture whose significance was not lost on the detective. He had figured that the prognosis was bleak, but now it was confirmed.

Harry stumbled through the waiting room door a little before the three hour mark rolled by. Sherlock had been aware of the receptionist at the desk desperately trying to get John's next-of-kin on the phone, but he had rather thought it was a lost cause. It was a Friday night, after all, and Harriet Watson was a notorious bar crawler. Yet here she was, slightly drunk but significantly less so than she typically would have been. She asked a few questions of Sherlock (What the hell happened? How is he? And what the fuck were you doing while he was being tortured?) before lapsing into a stiff silence. Tension began to radiate between the two, and Sherlock could feel his agitation at himself, at these slow-as-sloths doctors, at this whole damn night mounting into a simmering rage.

It wasn't until Mycroft walked into the room that Sherlock finally snapped.

"You fucking bastard!" He was out of his seat and lunging at his umbrella-toting brother before he fully realized what he was doing. "We had a bargain! You said you'd watch out for him and keep him safe, you lousy sod!" He was throwing punches and not really caring where they landed. Suddenly, it was all Mycroft's fault; all John's pain, Sherlock's confusion, and Harry's accusations were on Mycroft's shoulders, and it felt so just, so right. "You've got your god damned eyes all over London, and you can't stop your primary target from breaking into my fucking flat?" Somewhere, a little voice was reprimanding Sherlock, telling him that he was being childish, but he could barely hear it over the roar of anger swelling through him.

Such was his anger that it took him a few seconds to realize what had happened when his body suddenly smashed into the tile floor of the hospital. He looked up, his jaw hanging slightly agape as he tried to gather what had just occurred. If he was not mistaken, Mycroft had used his umbrella to sweep Sherlock's feet from beneath him. Bastard. Always did fight dirty.

"Sherlock, control yourself."

Sherlock indignantly rolled so that he was sitting on the floor with his lanky legs tucked beneath himself, a pout already blooming across his lips. "Bugger off."

Mycroft sighed, looking ever so much like the teenage brother being forced to look after his nuisance younger sibling once again. "I understand that you're upset, Sherlock, but my men and I can not be blamed for this. Moriarty was clever; we didn't even notice the disruption he put into camera feed until just before the explosion in your flat."

"We had a deal." Sherlock had his fingers tangled in his hair; whether out of stress or frustration, Mycroft had yet to determine. "I said you could keep those damn cameras in the flat as long as you kept an eye on John, too. That was the bargain, and you fucked your end up pretty miserably." His voice had descended in both tone and volume, causing it to sound incredibly menacing. To any lesser man, it would be terrifying, the voice of a man about to kill. To Mycroft, it was simply the voice of Sherlock in the middle of a fit of anger.

"We have been making every effort to keep John out of harm's way. We were not prepared for a direct assault. Next time, we will have better protocols in place for such an event."

"And what if there isn't a next time, Mycroft?" Sherlock spat from the floor. All signs of childish anger had been replaced by something deeper, something far more threatening.

Mycroft's breath caught in his throat as he processed the meaning behind Sherlock's words. Surely he didn't mean..."He's not that bad off, is he?"

Sherlock's head turned to glare at the door to the surgery. "He's been in there for over three hours now. How bad off do _you_ think he is? Because I believe he's just going to hop off the table and moon walk right on out here any moment now."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, brother. Have they given you any updates? Do you at least know what the damage done is?"

"They told me that they identified seven foreign chemical compounds in his bloodstream. One was a paralytic that was mostly worn off, one was an adrenaline-based mixture, three were toxins, and two were hallucinogens. They couldn't tell me anything about his leg other than they were still examining it to determine if...if amputation would be the best course of action." Sherlock thudded his head onto his knees, suddenly feeling far too overwhelmed. He was vaguely aware of being pulled into a nearby chair, but he simply flopped down and shrugged Mycroft's comforting hand off his shoulder. "He asked me not to let them do it. In the ambulance, he asked me. I-I didn't promise anything, but still..."

Mycroft sighed. He had once predicted that John would either be the making or the undoing of Sherlock, and it was seeming that the tides were turning in the favor of the latter. It was unfortunate, but not altogether surprising. "He's a doctor, Sherlock. If they do have to take such drastic actions, he will understand. And I doubt he even remembers the conversation in the ambulance."

"You'd be surprised. He has a rather good memory. It's a most unfortunate trait at times, especially on last New Year's Eve when we celebrated together by getting drunk." Sherlock's lips twisted upwards at the memory. "I had no clue what had happened, but he remembered all of it and wouldn't tell me. For the next week I kept finding little clues that he had planted over the apartment, each reconstructing an event from that night."

Mycroft was alarmed by the blatant emotionalism Sherlock was showing at the moment. He rarely saw more than cold indifference or slightly sadistic excitement on his brother's face, and yet now he was showing a range of emotions from sadness, to fondness, to fear, to humor. It was...disturbing.

"Well, I'm sure that things will turn up eventually, Sherlock. Just wait, in a few weeks you'll be plunging into your next case and this will be just another bump along the way."

Sherlock laughed outright at that, and suddenly he was back to his usual, condescending, arrogant arse of a self. "Please don't be so sentimental, Mycroft. Lifetime may come to contract movie rights."

"Of course, Sherlock. We wouldn't want me to get my own movie before you even got your own television show. I believe that would end the feud quite properly in my favor." He gave Sherlock his best, tight-lipped, patronizing smile. No point in trying to maintain a deep, meaningful conversation with his brother when he had so obviously cast aside any desire to do so.

They had fallen into their familiar snarky banter before long, each poking at one another's most sensitive buttons to try and get the upper hand in the argument. Mycroft thought that the least he could do given his security force's failure would be to distract Sherlock with some decent mockery. What are brothers for, after all?

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the whoosh the door being thrown open. Sherlock spun around in his chair, knowing before seeing that it was Lestrade. "Inspector?"

"Sherlock. We need you back at Baker Street now. We've found something."

"Yes, of course." Sherlock bounded to his feet, about to run out of the waiting room with Lestrade when the door to the surgery opened. A doctor bearing a chart stepped out and cleared his throat.

"Is there a Harriet Watson?"

Harry stumbled out of her chair and made her way towards the doctor. "That's me. Is John okay? Are you done?"

"We have him stabilized, but we need to talk about what treatment options are available now. Since he is still unconscious, I'm afraid that you'll have to choose which course we take. Now I can answer whatever questions you may have..."

Sherlock's chest tightened as he heard the doctor describing the complex operations involved in attempting to repair John's leg versus simple amputation. He felt the world narrowing to a single point of focus, all information but that which the doctor was giving completely blacked out. He watched Harry nodding, heard her murmuring questions to the doctor, saw the older man's hands gesturing as he tried to describe all that would or could take place in the surgery.

"Sherlock..._Sherlock._" The detective's attention was being called back to the rest of the world, forcing him to resurface from his reverie. "I need you back at the crime scene. Donovan found something that you need to have a look at." The inspector's eyebrows were furrowed in concern as he watched Sherlock's head jerking almost spasmodically from Harriet's conversation with the doctor and then back to the Detective Inspector.

"Yes, of course, I-" Sherlock gnawed his lower lip as he saw consent forms being passed between John's sister and doctor. He scowled, suddenly torn. Should he stay? Should he interject his opinion and force Harry to take the treatment he preferred? But what about the crime scene? They must have found something deliciously clever, or they wouldn't be forcing him to come...Would the mystery finally be solved if he left?

Would John ever forgive him if he left and Harry chose the wrong treatment?

**Author: Rhetorical questions are rhetorical. But this is not rhetorical: At this point, the story can turn slashy or stay bromancey. Which would you prefer? Leave your opinion in the reviews, please!**

**Also, thanks to lovejaystar, I am planning on doing a sort of AU of this story in which Moriarty's plan isn't foiled. Please keep a look out for that as it comes!**

**You are all wonderful for leaving such gracious reviews, and I look forward to writing more for you!**


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock cast one final glance between Lestrade and Harry before his body began moving towards the latter, acting as if on instinct. He could hear snippets of their conversation, but he couldn't fully make out what they were saying. He was so focused on the movement of their lips that he didn't notice when Mycroft rose and grasped the sleeve of his coat. The gruff clearing of his brother's throat finally drew Sherlock's attention.

"This is a family matter, Sherlock. It's not your place. You'll just make things more difficult than they already are for her. You'd do much better for John by doing as the Inspector asks."

Sherlock froze. He had become so accustomed to having John act as his moral compass that he had utterly failed to consider Harriet's difficulties. Internally, his mind was screaming that he was more family to John than Harry, that she had forfeit her rights as John's sister. Logically, however, he knew that he had no claim in deciding John's future. They were just flatmates, after all; no more involved in each other's affairs than sharing a living space forced them to be.

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. With a sense of foreboding finality, he motioned for the Detective Inspector to lead the way. He didn't even look backward as they left the waiting room, then the hospital.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Their flat, or rather, crime scene, was crammed with more officers of the Yard than it had since the make believe drugs bust all those weeks ago. Sherlock was mildly irritated to see Anderson stroll out of his room with a twisted look of disgust on his face; Sherlock was perfectly content to leave his room in the state of disrepair that characterized any space he occupied, so why should others turn their noses up at it?

Anderson, however, wasn't the only culprit committing violating acts against Sherlock's home. He had to force himself not to lunge at Sally and prise the jumper she was folding into an evidence bag out of her hands. Then there was the nameless forensics team member who was manhandling John's pillowcase. Sherlock could tell that it was John's because there were small stains pockmarking the fabric that others would assume were drool, but Sherlock knew were tears. As if John would ever do anything as undignified as drooling...

Lestrade stood silently next to Sherlock as the detective's eyes swept across the room, pausing fiercely to glare at some intrusions while completely ignoring others. Lestrade had expected the lanky detective to have a fit when he saw that a pair of his own boxer shorts had been bagged as potential evidence, but Sherlock seemed to be completely ignorant of or uncaring towards this invasion of privacy. Instead, he was scowling viciously at the poor bloke that was poking around John's armchair. He sighed, knowing that he'd never even begin to understand this pajama-clad enigma, and cleared his throat.

"Would you prefer to look over the evidence in the lounge or your bedroom?"

"My bedroom is fine. Your men seem to be...busy in here."

Lestrade had never heard anyone give a disdainful sniff in real life, but he believed that it had just happened. Wondering how exactly Sherlock had learned such a subtle gesture of condescension, Lestrade waved Sally over and motioned them into Sherlock's lab, er, room.

When they were all settled rather precariously on the edge of Sherlock's bed (he refused to move anything to allow for better seating), Lestrade withdrew a small flashdrive from an evidence bag. It was a rather simple, rather small device with few distinct markings. Only the JM scrawled on one side in silver Sharpie denoted any peculiarities of it. Sherlock took it in hand and began examining it more thoroughly while Lestrade spoke.

"Sally found it while helping the ballistics team dig the bullet out of John's mattress. Considering it was addressed to you, we figured that you'd better be given the first look of whatever's on there."

"Of course. I'll go get a laptop..." Sherlock wondered out of the room while still mentally disassembling the memory stick. It seemed harmless, but then again, so did Jim from IT. He paused as he reached out to grab John's laptop off the desk, suddenly feeling a wave of guilt. If he had no right to voice his opinion at the hospital, then he certainly had no right to potentially unleash a destructive virus on John's personal property. He wouldn't put it past Moriarty to have infected the flashdrive with a subroutine which would change a computer's binary to all zeroes, and Sherlock didn't think that John would appreciate finding his laptop so mistreated once he was out of the hospital. Instead, Sherlock walked the extra dozen steps into the kitchen to retrieve his own laptop off the table.

Once he had returned to his room, Sherlock had already turned his computer on and was downloading whatever data that was on the flashdrive into his hard drive. He felt that annoying constricting of his chest once again as a video popped up onto his screen. The footage began with John laying prone and unconscious on his ever pristine bed. The camera stayed there for a few moments before swinging about to give Sherlock an enlarged view of Moriarty's face.

"Why hello, Sherlock! I'm so glad that you're going to be seeing this; it was very important to me that you do, but I just couldn't have you awake and possibly mucking things up while I work. So I thought I would film my little meeting with Johnny-boy, just for you. I do think that you're going to love the game I have planned for Johnny, Sherlock. It's all very elegant, if I do say so myself."

Moriarty continued his inane chatter on the screen for a while, describing how much he loved being in Sherlock's flat, getting to see the madness behind the genius in person, and other such nonsense. It was clear that he was just stalling until John woke up, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to skip through the mad man's diatribe. He stared at Jim intently, attempting to dissect the man through the footage, but he was unable to come up with anything of real value. All he could say with certainty was that Jim was just as sleep-deprived as they had been after the case, a fact which could potentially work to his advantage if Sherlock knew how to properly utilize the knowledge.

Finally, a low groan issued from the bed, and the camera swung back to focus on John. Meanwhile, the narration continued in the background. "Ah, looks like little Johnny is starting to come around. Now Sherlock, I will be filming all that I can of this to show you later, and I expect you to watch it all, but I also have a few things I need to say to Johnny in private. You understand, I'm sure, and won't be too put out about me editing some of our conversation out. Perhaps is Johnny survives without permanent brain damage, he'll tell you what was said. In the meantime, I can't have our little soldier seeing you watching, so I'll just put the camera right up here..." There was a pause and a great deal of scuffling while Moriarty situated the lens such that it would go unseen, but could still view the entire expanse of the room. "There." Jim stepped back and grinned into the recording device, looking ever so pleased with himself. "I do hope you enjoy the show, Sherlock; it is, and always shall be, for you."

The next bit was a little difficult to follow. Sherlock was only allowed to hear short clips of the conversation between John and Moriarty, which was incredibly frustrating to the detective. He felt as if he were missing an explanation for Jim's true motive, the darker drive that brought him out of hiding and directly into the line of danger. He didn't quite believe Jim's feeble excuse of needing to "punish" John for ruining his grand scheme. He was distracted, however, when Moriarty finally began describing the rules and intent of the game he was playing with John. Suddenly, his own limp form made an appearance on the screen, and Sherlock couldn't help but to lean closer and see what damage had been done.

Brilliant. Simply, horrifically brilliant. Everything was so meticulously planned, from the slow-acting poison to the choice of five different "cures." John never even had a fighting chance, really, because Jim was fully capable of moving about the syringes while John was indisposed. Which he did. It wasn't necessarily cheating, due to the fact that the anti-toxin was still there on the desk, but it also wasn't playing fair, either. Sherlock deduced that, if Jim hadn't been moving the needles about, John would have selected the correct one on his third attempt. He took great pains in identifying which syringe was the correct one, because it took his mind off what was playing out on the screen.

The seizure had been incredibly difficult to watch simply because Sherlock knew how much John loathed feeling helpless, out of control. Of course, Sherlock would rather have watched John suffer through multiple seizures than what came next. At least during the seizures, John had been mostly quiet, just giving strangled cries that were wrenched unwillingly from his lungs. He certainly hadn't shrieked until his voice turned hoarse, or begged, "Please god, stop it. Please..."

Sherlock's attention was momentarily taken from the screen by a shifting sensation on the bed. He glanced over to look at Donovan; her face had adopted an unusual pallor, and her rate rate had risen significantly. Whether this was in anger towards Jim or a physio-sympathetic response towards John, Sherlock was unsure, but her concern was...Well, it didn't fly under his radar as it normally would have. Lestrade also showed signs of a physical reaction to the events on the video; his jaw was firmly set, and his hands were clenched together in his lap in a fashion that was not very Lestrade-like. Interesting. Sherlock began to evaluate his own reaction to the images playing across his computer, but he quickly abandoned the task. He didn't much like what he was finding.

By the third and fourth injection, Sherlock noticed that the tightness in his chest wouldn't leave no matter how many deep breaths he took, and his stomach had begun doing little flip-flops inside him that made him want to run to the nearest bathroom and rid it of all its contents. When he saw John mauling his own flesh during the hallucination, Sherlock tasted bile in his mouth. When Jim presented John with the three new syringes, and John's face looked so completely devastated and defeated, Sherlock noticed that his hands were shaking. He stilled them by shoving them beneath his legs, as he had seen John do so many times before when his intermittent tremor decided to make itself known.

He was wholly unprepared for what happened after John gave himself the fifth and sixth injection. The seizure hadn't been much of a surprise; Moriarty seemed to have enjoyed watching John flail helplessly on the floor the first time a great deal, so that was expected. What came as a shock was how, after the first seizure, John had crawled back over to collapse at Sherlock's feet. Then, ever so slowly, he had pulled himself up to drop his head against the detective's knees. His breathing was ragged and shallow, coming out in harsh gasps that sounded less human than tortured animal. His whole body was still trembling, and he reached a hand up to grip Sherlock's knee in an effort to steady himself. Or so Sherlock assumed.

Gradually, Sherlock became aware that words were puncturing their way through John's soft sobs. Much of it was so low or strangled sounding that Sherlock couldn't understand what he was saying, but it was clear that he was talking to Sherlock. No, _apologizing _to him. He was apologizing for not being more clever, for not knowing how to stop Jim, for not being stronger, for not fighting through the pain, for not helping Sherlock sooner. The mumbled apologies were quickly becoming less coherent, though, and Sherlock could see John's grip tightening on his knee until his knuckles were turning white. The detective had to resist pulling up his pants leg to check for bruising, to look for a sign that John had marked him. Instead, he kept his attention focused on the screen, where John was fast losing control. Sherlock could see that another seizure was imminent, but John was fighting against it.

As John's last reserves of strength were torn away from him, he began frantically pleading. Not with god, however. He looked up at Sherlock's still unconscious form and began softly begging, "Don't let it happen again, Sherlock. Please make it stop, don't let him do it, don't want...please...Sherlock, need you-oh god, Sherlock, it hurts. Just, just make it-"

Sherlock turned his head away from the screen as John dropped to the floor once again. The pressure in his chest was quickly becoming unbearable; he couldn't breathe properly, he couldn't focus on anything other than the cold lancing through his heart. Abruptly, slammed the computer shut and rose from the bed. He was out the door before Lestrade even had time to call out, "Where are you off to, Sherlock? Sherlock?"

He strode into the crisp night air, not caring the least about the calls of his name issuing from the flat. Using his knowledge of hospital procedures and legal work, Sherlock estimated how much more time he had before it would be too late. It would be close, but he thought he could make it in time. He knew he must make it, or the crushing weight on his chest would never leave, and he would surely suffocate from the guilt that laid his heart bare.

He had failed John once tonight; he had no intentions of doing it a second time.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry had thought that she'd seen enough of John in hospital beds to last her a lifetime. Clearly, she had underestimated her brother and his ability to stumble into trouble. No, not stumble. Run into it head-first with a grin on his face. Honestly, she wished that their parents were alive if only so she could prove them wrong; they had always said that Harry's lifestyle would lead to an early death, but she had yet to put herself in an ICU, whereas John had accomplished that on three separate occasions now.

Of course, she would gladly reverse their roles if she could. She didn't deserve to be sitting through this again, this waiting and hoping and making decisions that ought not to be hers to make. Her drinking habits may leave some to be desired, but she really was a decent person overall. And decent people shouldn't have to sign consent forms giving bearded doctors permission to hack limbs off their younger siblings. It just wasn't right.

It was taking her much longer to get through the legal paperwork than was completely necessary. She thought she had made the right decision, but that didn't make things any easier. The doctor had described to her in great detail John's two options, and she had chosen what she thought the lesser of two evils were. Why subject her brother to multiple, painful, expensive surgeries, when it could all be resolved in one simple operation? Why risk infection and other such complications when the odds of such were greatly reduced through amputation? It was only logical.

Not that the way her pen hovered over the paper as she cried for her brother was in any way logical. Not that she felt any pleasure in signing John up for a life as an amputee, a handicap, a cripple.

God, thinking of John as anything less than whole was nauseating. She closed her eyes, recalling some of their many childhood memories together, memories that came before their personality differences planted a wedge squarely between them. She saw John chasing after her as they played tag, his little legs too short even then to have a proper chance of catching her. She saw him clambering up a tree with more skill than any reasonable five-year-old should have, evidence that he spent more time scaling than walking. She watched as he played football with their neighbor, Rupert, and lost. That same neighbor had grown up to be an actor, had five children, and was still quite good at football, from what Harry had heard.

John had grown up to be an amputee. Or rather, would be, if Harry could find enough sense to sign the damn papers. The doctor cleared his throat, gently reminding her that time was a valuable commodity in this particular situation, and Harry finally dropped the tip of the pen to the paper.

"Don't you dare sign those papers, Harriet!" The deep, booming voice echoed through the office as the door smashed against the wall. She spun around to see John's flatmate, Sherlock or some other nonsense name like it, standing in the doorway. He looked thoroughly disheveled, as if he had run a great distance. Going by the way his breath came out in sharp huffs, she supposed that he had.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, Do not sign those papers. I spoke perfectly clearly the first time; I see no reason why I should have to repeat myself."

"I know what you said, Sherlock. What I don't know is why you think you have any say in the matter." She honestly didn't know why she was protesting; she would gladly have handed the whole mess to someone else to deal with. But something about the way Sherlock looked so damn authoritive made her want to rebel against him. Call it a character flaw; she always had hated anyone that presumed to tell her what to do.

Suddenly, Sherlock's aggression seemed to drop completely. His shoulders sagged and he actually looked nearly human for once. "I shouldn't have any say, but John asked. In the ambulance, he knew that they were going to want to amputate, and he asked me not to let them. I think I owe to him to try."

Harry kept her face stoically calm on the outside, but inside she felt her lungs hitch in an uncomfortable fashion. She knew that John would've wanted to try everything else, knew that he would not cope well with such a loss, but hearing this...this _subhuman _voice it, and seeing how much concern he harbored for her brother was, well, it was almost infuriating, really. She was supposed to be the one looking out for little Johnny, not this man that had charged into John's life and ultimately been the cause of all this. "I'm sure that he'll appreciate your concern, but I believe that amputation is the best choice for him. It's significantly cheaper, the risks are minimal, and it's less painful."

"Physically, yes. But what about psychologically?"

And there it was. The question that had been nagging at the back of her mind thrown out into the world for anybody to hear. She knew with complete and utter certainty that John would not be okay; she knew that he would loathe himself for being so broken, and he would suffer as he had following Afghanistan. They had never really spoken about how miserable he was after being sent home, but it had been obvious in the tight corners of his eyes, in how his hand was constantly shoved in a pocket to hide the tremors. She knew that losing a limb would finally snuff out the last spark of resilience in John, and not even the great Sherlock Holmes would be able to bring it back.

Suddenly, she was pulled out of her introspection by the sound of that cello-deep voice cutting into her thoughts. "Listen, I know that you're unsure, too. Otherwise, you would have signed the papers before I got here. Why don't we compromise? First, we can try the other operations to avoid amputation. If they don't work, and John is unhappy, then we can discuss amputation. And he can make the choice for himself, so you wouldn't have to blame yourself for his misery. If you're concerned about the expenses, I will pay for it all."

Harry blinked up at the detective, shocked by his generous offer. She had to quickly recalibrate her opinion of this Sherlock character before beginning to speak. "That sounds...reasonable."

"Of course. It is, after all, the only real solution available to us. Doctor, would you be so kind as to draw up the second set of agreements?"

The forms were pushed in front of Harry and she signed them without a second thought. For some reason, she trusted Holmes' assurances that this was the right thing to do. She wasn't sure that trusting a sociopath was the most intelligent choice of her life, but it was by no means the least.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to glance at John's bed once more. Nothing appeared to have changed since his last check five minutes ago, so he resumed his staring at the laptop screen. Mycroft had Sherlock's computer amongst other such necessities delivered to the hospital, and so Sherlock was once again watching the video from Moriarty. He didn't particularly enjoy doing so, but it was necessary. Jim wouldn't have been able to erase every lead from the footage; it was just a matter of finding that lead buried among the other atrocities.

He was, of course, watching it on mute so as to not disturb John. Or at least that's what he told himself. For some reason, a familiar quote from H.P. Lovecraft kept popping into his head in a rather irritating fashion, and he could not deny its relevance to the situation.

_"There are vocal qualities peculiar to men, and vocal qualities peculiar to beasts; and it is terrible to hear the one when the source should yield the other."_

Hammer, meet nail.

The reason why Sherlock hated watching the video suddenly became so glaringly obvious that he cringed at his own inability to observe himself. Seeing John in pain, while bothersome, was not what made the knot of revulsion swell into his throat. Nor was it watching as John's own hand brought on that pain. No, what made Sherlock want to flay Moriarty into tiny bits, what made him want to test how many strikes with the riding crop it would take to kill someone using Jim from IT as the subject, was how inhuman John became with each passing torment. For a few moments, Moriarty had reduced John to little more than a wailing beast, and it sickened Sherlock. It made him shudder to his core as he watched John break into nothing but primal instincts and fear.

And for that, Sherlock kept watching the video. He kept watching it so he could pinpoint Moriarty's weakness, so he could exploit it ruthlessly and violently. He kept watching it so he could-oh.

_OH._

There it was. A single touch, and Sherlock saw it all. A hand lingering a moment too long, and it was all painted canvases and screaming billboards for Sherlock. So clear, so obvious, so absolutely fucking perfect.

Sherlock knew without a doubt that it would be impossible to track Moriarty; he was too methodical, too elusive to be found over fifteen hours after the crime. But Moran, Jim's favorite little henchman...Oh, he was deliciously easy to track and tail. He was always so busy, always running about on little errands for Jim. He couldn't possibly hide his trail each time he left their safe house.

With a smug smile, Sherlock deleted the video from his hard drive and closed his laptop. He had no use for the footage now; it had sufficiently served its purpose. If only he could delete it from his mental hard drive, too, as he had so many other tidbits of useless information over the years. Somehow, he was sure that it would stick with him no matter how hard he tried to erase it. That did not mean, however, that he couldn't ignore it and pretend it never existed.

He stood up and dragged his chair back next to John's bedside. The doctor was beginning to show signs of waking up, and Sherlock did not want him waking up alone. For a moment, he thought about reaching out and grasping John's clammy hand, but he rejected the idea. John would likely not wish to be touched for some time, such were the after effects of torture.

"Shrlck?"

Sherlock smiled as he moved himself more into John's line of sight. He could see that John was struggling to regain control of his mental faculties against the painkillers, but he didn't seem to be making much progress. His eyes would flutter open for a few seconds, then roll shut once again. Ignoring his previous conclusion, Sherlock placed his hand against John's cheek. Having a sensation on which to focus would greatly increase John's odds of defeating the lethargy that was dragging him down once again. "You're not going to make that my nickname, are you? I'd be rather put out by it."

John's lips quirked if only for a fraction of a second. Good. At least auditory stimulation was being processed. "Damn name. Too many letters. What'cher mum thinking?"

"I would guess that my mum was thinking the exact same thing as was your mum when she made your middle name Hamish." John's eyes were finally remaining open, even if they did seem to be peering at a point slightly to the left of Sherlock's head.

"'s a family name."

Sherlock shook his head, fighting the urge to laugh at his drugged and confused friend. He always loved it when John came home from the pub a bit tipsy; he was much more receptive to bad jokes, and he laughed (giggled, Sherlock's mind interjected) more freely. Apparently, painkillers had a similar effect on John, too. Each sentence was punctuated with a little chuckle (giggle) or smile. The overall effect was that John appeared less care-worn, less battered, and more...well, more at peace.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I can wiggle my toes."

At first Sherlock was confused as to what in bloody hell was so impressive about that, but then he looked down at John's feet and knew exactly what he meant. He meant that he still had toes to be wiggled. Sherlock turned his attention back to John's doped-up, beaming face, only to be dragged into a rough semi-hug. Sherlock had to stumble out of his chair to lean over John, allowing the doctor to bury his face against Sherlock's collar bone while his arm wrapped around Sherlock's bony shoulders.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock vaguely wondered how thankful John would be once they started weaning him off the painkillers, but he decided not to mention that for now. Instead, he clutched John a little closer and didn't let go until a nurse entered the room. He awkwardly stepped aside as the nurse poked at John's IV lines, but he could still feel the gentle pressure of John's fingers clamped around his shirt sleeve.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author: My apologies to everyone that was irked by my mention of the cost of medical treatment. In my head, Sherlock would've insisted on private care for John; ergo, the expenses. I don't think Sherlock would ever trust doctors that hadn't underwent a thorough background check. Anyway, if I ever do any edits, I'll mention that. Sorry for being ambiguous on that one. My bad!**

The next few days were extremely frustrating for Sherlock. John was in and out of surgery on a fairly consistent basis, and was often too drugged to make conversation for more than a few minutes. And even then, their discussions tended to delve no deeper than "Can I still wiggle my toes? Good." Sherlock ceased to feel worried when John was wheeled out of his room once again, just frustrated that he was condemned to another few hours of boredom. He tried returning to their flat to enjoy some much needed privacy, but once there, he discovered that he couldn't stop worrying about John, about whether or not some fool would muck up his care while Sherlock wasn't there to oversee it. So he returned to the hospital to endure more mind-boggling boredom.

Finally, _finally_ John's doctor announced that they had completed their last surgery and that they could begin gradually reducing the amount of painkillers being administered to John. It was a good thing, too, because Sherlock had worked his way through every puzzle book Mycroft had delivered to him. It wouldn't be too long before Sherlock started in on tormenting the staff, and he had learned a long time ago that such behavior usually ended with him being forced out of the hospital. It took a couple of more days, but John was becoming more lucid each time he woke up, and was finally being somewhat entertaining.

"John...John. _John!"_ Sherlock scowled and reached out to prod the man on the bed. He could tell that John was awake by the way his eyes were moving beneath his lids. As such, Sherlock fully expected John to open said eyes and be interesting for a bit. "You've slept for ten hours already, John. It's time to wake up."

"Jesus, Sherlock, could you be any more irritating?" John frowned and batted Sherlock's hand away. "I'm allowed to sleep all day; it's one of the few benefits of being ill."

"You're not ill; you're injured. A bullet wound in the leg is differnt from a pathogen in your body. Since your brain isn't in need of treatment, then, it is inappropriate to sleep all day."

"Oh, well, I'm glad that you've updated me on my condition, then. I would've never guessed that I had a bloody bullet put through my leg."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. This wasn't very John-like behavior. "You're grouchy."

"No shit, Sherlock." John was now staring up at the ceiling as if willing it to cave in. For a moment, Sherlock thought it just might do that.

"Can I help?" The detective had deduced a variety of causes for John's foul mood, the two most likely candidates being pain and cabin fever. Hell, Sherlock was slightly more grumpy than usual and he only had to deal with one of those irritants. Surely this was the explanation for the dark cloud hanging over John.

John glanced over at Sherlock and the tight set to his jaw softened a bit. "No. There's nothing you can do. Sorry. I've just been...brooding a bit. Didn't mean to take it out on you."

"It's not a problem. Although, I believe I could procure you a stress ball if you'd like. They don't tend to snap back when you vent anger on them."

"I hear walls have that same quality."

"Only when you shoot them. They fight back a bit if you try kicking or punching them." Sherlock watched John intently through their conversation. He could see some of the tension easing out of him, but John's hand was still fisted tightly in the sheets and his smile didn't remain on his face long enough to be counted as an actual smile.

"I think we'd better stick with the stress balls then. I wouldn't much trust myself with a gun at the moment."

Sherlock froze and sucked in a sharp gasp of air. He had heard from Mycroft that John's therapist had noted suicidal thoughts after he returned from Afghanistan, but he'd dismissed the possibility that they would return. But now...

As if reading Sherlock's progression of thoughts, John shook his head and interjected before they could run too amok. "No, I wouldn't shoot myself. Just the next doctor that walks in here with one of those damn pitying smiles. I've had far too many bullets in my body already; I don't much fancy putting another one in."

"Oh." Sherlock attempted to act nonchalant, as if he hadn't just about had a panic attack at the thought of John being suicidal. "I wouldn't mind taking a few shots at your doctors, either. I thought that Mycroft would be able to provide us with non-imbecilic physicians. Clearly, I overestimated his competence again."

John laughed and rolled his eyes at Sherlock. "I still don't understand this feud between you two. You're not that different, really. He just has tact whereas you have..."

"Honesty?"

"Indiscretion. Oh, don't get pouty, Sherlock. You know it's true."

Sherlock frowned. It was sounding suspiciously as if John preferred how Mycroft acted over himself, and Sherlock was none too keen for this. "Abduction isn't very tactful."

"No. Not really. But he was very pleasant about the whole thing. Other than when he insinuated that we'd be married by the end of the week. Then again, everyone seems to be making that assumption, so I suppose I can't hold it against him."

Sherlock snorted. "You'll be interested to know that, prior to yourself, nobody ever assumed that my assistants were also my sexual partners. Clearly, you're the one to blame for it."

"Me?" John sputtered. "I'm not the one stalking around in a skin-tight purple shirt and great billowing coat. If anyone's sending off homoerotic signals, it's you."

"And yet you're the one that just described my clothing choice in detail. Why are you so interested in what I'm wearing, John?" He leaned forward, assuming the same expression he wore when trying to seduce favors out of Molly. "Is it because you're more interested in what I'd look like without all those tedious clothes?"

If John's jaw dropped even a fraction of an inch lower, Sherlock was sure it would come completely unhinged. Suddenly, he started laughing uproariously and roughly shoved Sherlock out of his personal space. "Good god, Sherlock, you really did miss out on a career as an actor. Maybe when this is all done, we should look into getting you an agent. You could at least get a decent job doing Alan Rickman impersonations."

Sherlock grinned along with John. Finally, his colleague's foul mood had broken. Good. Mission accomplished. Now Sherlock could shake off the terrible boredom that had been plaguing him all day; John was far more entertaining when he was laughing and poking fun at Sherlock than when he was scowling and making loosely-veiled hints at suicide.


	14. Chapter 14

"You want me to take _what?"_

"Anti-depressants, John. The staff and I have noticed that you seem to be struggling, and we believe that medication would make the transition easier for you."

"No. I'm not depressed, I'm just a bit...frustrated. It'll get better once I'm out of the hospital. Besides, it's only been a little over a week. You can't honestly expect me to be okay so soon."

"No. Of course not. But it generally takes a few weeks for the medication to start working, anyway, and we'd like to make sure that we get the prescription right before you're released to go home."

"So you're drugging me now so I won't be unhappy later?"

"Well, that's not quite how I would put it..."

John took a slow and measured breath before responding to the doctor. "I don't want to be medicated. Not right now. Why don't we wait, and if things don't get better, then we try them?"

The bearded doctor frowned, but eventually nodded. "Fair enough. You know, I believe I'm finally seeing what makes you and your partner get along so well. You're both stubborn as mules." He smiled and left the room before John could yell at him that Sherlock wasn't his boyfriend.

With an angry sigh, John flopped back against his pillow. He could kill Sherlock for not being there to help ward off the physician and his insistence that John be medicated. Then again, he suspected that Sherlock would've agreed with the doctor. He hadn't particularly been a bundle of roses to be around as of late.

It's not like John had anything against anti-depressants; on the contrary, he had seen how much they had helped his mother when her daughter's drinking and husband's abuse had taken a toll on her emotional well-being. He just didn't want them. Not in this situation. Not when taking them meant that Moriarty had managed to wriggle beneath his skin and fill him with a toxin that no amount of dialysis could purge from his bloodstream. No, Jim could break him physically, but John refused to admit that the damage went any deeper than his skin and bone.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Sherlock glanced down at his watch. He had told John that he was just going to their flat to shower and gather some more supplies for their extended stay at the hospital, and that he would only be gone for a couple of hours. It had been exactly one hour since he had left John's room, and forty-five minutes since Moran had stepped into the building that Sherlock was currently watching. Given that Sherlock still needed to stop by the flat to shower and grab some random items to uphold his ruse, he could stand and wait for twenty more minutes before he would need to head off to the flat. He didn't much like the idea of abandoning his mission before it was completed, but he could always track Moran down a second time. Mycroft had been rather charitable by allowing Sherlock the services of some of his agents, and Sherlock was certain that these same men wouldn't have trouble pinning Sebastian a second time.

That is, unless Moriarty happened to notice his right-hand man being tailed. Then things would become a bit more complicated. But Sherlock doubted that Jim took the time to look after anyone other than himself. Misplaced affection for Moran aside, Jim was an incredibly selfish individual.

Shifting uncomfortably among small fort of rubbish he had built for surveillance purposes, Sherlock scowled into his binoculars once again. He couldn't tell what was going on in the building, and it was beginning to irritate him immensely. He couldn't even see through the windows to lip read because of how heavily tinted they were. He was very disappointed about this, because he'd been teaching himself how to lip read in the hospital for this specific purpose. This, and the fact that he'd noticed John tended to mumble a lot while sleeping drugged, and he really wanted to know what he was saying. He didn't count it as an invasion of privacy since he mostly only learned that John dreamed about jam and hammer head sharks a lot. Both of which confused Sherlock, but he didn't ever mention it for fear of John snapping at him for reading his lips in the first place.

Anyway, back on the task at hand...

He peered down at the door once again, momentarily wondering if maybe Moran had escaped through one of the side doors without him noticing. This was highly unlikely, but altogether possible. He groaned once again as he looked at his watch. Time was up. He needed to be heading to Baker Street so he could make it back to the hospital before John started throwing a fit. They really were becoming frighteningly co-dependent.

And then the hulking man stepped out of the building. Sherlock tensed, wondering what he should do now. It would take at least fifteen minutes to complete his work with Moran, probably more, given the sheer size of the man. This would make him late, which would make John question what he had been doing, which would lead to Sherlock having to lie to John more, and he really did hate lying to John. He always felt as if he were committing some sort of crime.

Stepping from his hiding place, Sherlock quickly made his decision. John was probably sleeping, anyway, and wouldn't even notice or care if he was a bit late. Besides, he was doing this for John in the first place.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"You're not very clever, are you?"

The pasty faced detective grinned down at him, somehow looking both pleased and haughty at the same time. Sebastian had seen that same expression on Jim's face a multitude of times, but it usually made him want to do obscene things to the mad man, not break his teeth out as he wanted to now with Sherlock.

"Bugger off."

"See, now that just proves my point. I have a variety of appendages that you could have instructed me to force into a variety of orifices, and yet you chose the most worn-out curse of them all. Not a bit clever, then."

Sebastian was silently seething on the floor. Again, his intelligence was often insulted by Jim, but he never really minded it. He had never much liked school, anyway, and he knew that he was hired for his muscle, not his brains. But when this skeleton-thin bastard kept calling him stupid, well, Sebastian couldn't help but have some gory fantasies with this prick as the victim.

"Your first mistake, of course, was getting in a cab without first checking to see whom was driving it. I thought even _you _would know to do that, given your involvement in all those cabbie murders."

Sebastian felt like spitting fire, but he knew that it was mostly anger at himself for being so stupid. Yes, the arse had a point. He should've known better than to get in a cab without checking for danger first. Rookie mistake.

"Then you didn't even notice when we took a wrong turn. Then another. Then another. And another, until we were headed for the completely opposite end of the city. Really, now, are all you normal folk so dense, or are you just exceptionally moronic?"

Twisting against his bindings, Sebastian fought to lash out at the detective. He was furious now, and all he wanted was to hear the satisfying crunch of Sherlock's bones beneath his boots. Of course, the detective would never had been dumb enough to stand within range of his legs. Fuck.

"What do you want then, Holmes? Are you going to torture me for information? It's a lost cause. I've had much worse than you try and fail." He felt his blood rushing through his veins, but not out of fear. Certainly not. He was just pissed.

"Not at all. I just need you to deliver a message for me. And don't worry, you won't even have to memorize anything. I know that would be far beyond your mental capabilities. All you have to do is hold very very still..."

Sherlock raised a gun and leveled it directly at Sebastian. At first, he thought that the detective was aiming for his head, but then the gun dropped and fired at his right shoulder. He screamed, but it was quickly cut off by a second shot that struck him in his left thigh, slightly above his knee. That was it, then. Symmetry and retribution. He was meant to be the completion of the analogy; if Moriarty and Sherlock were two sides of the same coin, then Sebastian and Watson were also so. Now they were mirror images of each other, each broken where the other was whole. Even Sebastian could appreciate the poetry of it.

Sherlock wiped his fingerprints from the gun before placing it in Sebastian's lap. "There are no bullets in it, so don't even bother."

Sebastian simply gave a grunt of acknowledgment as Sherlock tapped on the phone that Moriarty had provided him when he was first hired. He heard the familiar beep of a text message being sent, followed by a buzz that meant the GPS feature had been activated. Sherlock turned about and gave Sebastian a pleasant smile before strolling out the door, calling out behind himself, "Hope you don't bleed out."

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"You're late." John was warily looking Sherlock over as if expecting him to dematerialize at any second.

"I brought you a treat." Sherlock grinned and dropped a bag on John's lap. "I asked your doctor if I could bring you back a proper dinner. He seemed pretty keen on the idea. Thought it might help your sour mood."

Excitedly rummaging through the bag, John gave a little exclamation of happiness. "Oh thank God!"

"You can call me Sherlock."

John hardly looked up to spare Sherlock an eye roll before plunging back into the brown paper bag. "That's an old joke. And cheesy. I'd expect better of you. Oh! You got biscuits! I could kiss you."

"And that brings your homoerotic tally to two against my zero. Really, John, it's like you're not even trying."

John simply chuckled and chucked a package of sweets at Sherlock. "It was an exaggeration. Anyway, what are these for?"

John was holding up a rather large container of jam and a stuffed hammer head shark with a look of confusion. "Well, I think it's pretty obvious, John. The jam is for the bread and the stuffed toy is so you don't have to cling to me while you sleep."

John lightly blushed at the mention of his new need to be touching some part of Sherlock while he was sleeping, but he quickly covered it with a grin. "Er, thanks, I guess."

"Of course." Sherlock dragged over the table that usually rested in the corner of the room and began arranging their dinner on it. He was abruptly interrupted, however, by John shoving the stuffed shark down into the folds of his coat. "Um, John?"

"Well, if you expect that you relieve you of sleep monitoring duties, then it at least should smell like you." John's expression stated that this was clearly the most obvious and logical thought progression in the history of mankind, and that Sherlock was a fool not to realize it.

"Oh. That makes sense." Sherlock shifted his position so that the shark was tucked more deeply into his coat, allowing for more of his scent to soak through the fabric. He couldn't help but smile at the thought of John cuddling with it during the night and finding comfort from whatever demons tormented him in his sleep.

**Author: So sorry about all the Sherlockian jokes I've sprinkled throughout here; I couldn't resist. I'm assuming that most of you know their origins, though, so it's all good. Thank you once again for continuing to read and review. I can honestly say that writing this has been a blast thanks to all the wonderful feedback. **


	15. Chapter 15

Jim stalked into the warehouse, loving the sound of his footfalls echoing throughout the building. He always did enjoy drama, and the soft thuds reverberating from beneath his soles seemed just perfect. And then there was the image of the broken and bleeding man sprawled out on the floor in front of him. Honestly, a photographer couldn't have arranged the crumpled henchman better. Jim really did hate to lose a helper with such a natural talent for aesthetics, but it must be done.

He knelt beside Sebastian, gently stroking the side of his face so that the man's attention was drawn out of whatever pointless introspection he had been doing.

"Jim? You came?"

"Of course, Seb. I would never just leave you here." It really wasn't a lie. Jim had no intention of abandoning the right-hand man that had served him so well.

"I'm sorry, Jim. I didn't see-"

"Sh." Jim clapped a hand over Sebastian's mouth, silencing whatever drivel he was about to spew. Jim wasn't interested in apologies or excuses. They would just ruin the beauty of this moment. "You don't need to explain anything. I understand."

Sebastian's eyes were darting over Jim's features, apparently looking for the cause of his sudden benevolence. Of course, he would never find the answer there. Jim may appear to be an open book, but his mind was a puzzle with too many fold and recesses to ever be fully understood or solved.

"Thank you, Jim." He let out a long sigh and slumped weakly against the floor. Blood loss was taking its toll, and he hardly had the energy to acknowledge the pain of the gun shot wounds anymore.

"We need to get you back to the safe house. Our medics can help you there." Jim rose to his feet and brushed the non-existent dirt from his immaculate suit. Always fastidious, always well-preened. He strolled out of sight for a moment then returned with a small case. He sat back down on the ground and pushed the latches on the case open.

"What's that?"

"This," he said, pulling out various packets and bottles, "is my emergency medical kit. We can't expect to get you anywhere with you bleeding everywhere and in pain, now can we?"

Sebastian noted a vague, uneasy feeling twisting in his stomach, but he ignored it. It clenched tighter as Jim pulled a pair of medical tweezers from the kit and began sanitizing them.

The feeling dissipated as Jim looked up and smiled his most heart-breaking smile at Sebastian. "This may hurt a bit. Should I tell you a joke to get your mind off it?"

"S-sure." Sebastian was embarrassed by the way his voice wavered, but Jim acted as if he didn't notice. He just pulled on a pair of latex gloves and scooted closer to his henchman.

"Why are there no aspirin in the rainforest?" The tweezers plunged into Sebastian's shoulder and began digging into the torn flesh.

"D-unno." Sebastian's breath hitched, but he refused to scream with Jim sitting next to him.

"Because it would not be financially viable to attempt to sell pharmaceuticals in the largely unpopulated rainforest." The tweezers withdrew and dropped a little piece of bloody lead into a small glass container. Apparently satisfied, they moved on to jam into the leg wound.

"What is red and smells like blue paint?"

Sebastian couldn't help but release a small cry as the tweezers ground around inside himself. He could feel them pushing aside flesh, scraping against bone. "Don't...know!"

"Red paint."

Not knowing if he was laughing or sobbing, Sebastian cringed as the little metal instrument withdrew and dropped yet another piece of lead into the container. He could feel sweat dripping down his brow, but he couldn't lift his arm to wipe it away. Finally, gloriously, the tweezers were set aside and Jim began filling up a syringe.

"What's brown and sticky?" A cold alcohol wipe brushed against Sebastian's arm, but he could hardly feel it in contrast to the throbbing pain radiating from his thigh and shoulder.

"T-tell me."

"A stick." The needle plunged into Sebastian's arm and released its contents into his bloodstream. He cringed at the sudden lack of sensation spreading through his body. He should have been relieved as the pain abated, but anything was better than feeling this hard wave of nothing sweeping over him.

"That...That wasn't p-painkillers, was it?"

Jim actually had the decency to look regretful as he responded, "No." He reached out and brushed his fingers through Sebastian's hair, swiping his fringe from in front of his quickly dilating eyes. "Nobody ever gets to me, Seb."

"But I came the closest."

"That you did." Jim leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Seb's, feeling the ghost of the man's last exhale brushing against his lips.

He rose and collected his little medical kit and jar of lead, the only memento of Sebastian he would allow himself. If asked, he could say that they were pulled from the bullet wound he had sustained in his arm all those years ago. Nobody would ever ask, though.

A few minutes later, his car pulled away from the warehouse just as it erupted into flames.

So well-timed.

So dramatic.

So perfect.

**Author: In case you were wondering, I got all of Jim's non-jokes from **_anti-joke dot com_**. I couldn't resist giving him a screwed up sense of humor.**


	16. Chapter 16

John slouched more deeply into his wheelchair as Lestrade and Sherlock argued about the best method to overcome the narrow staircase. Lestrade was insisting that they at least try to drag the chair up the stairs, while Sherlock repeated that the chair was clearly too wide to even have a hope of fitting on the stair case. He was insisting that they would have to carry John up to their flat. John was torn between being humiliated that he was the cause of this argument in the first place, and angry that either man had yet to acknowledge his interjections into the debate. He felt like a child stuck in a stroller while its parents yelled at each other about the escalator. Finally, he grew sick of the bickering and decided to make his displeasure known.

"Would you girls please shut up!" Both Sherlock and Lestrade turned to him, their eyes wide with confusion and shock at John's outburst. "Lestrade, there is no way in hell this thing is going to fit on those stairs, and I'd rather not try in the first place because one of you two ninnies is bound to drop me, and I'd don't fancy having a second concussion. Sherlock, the thought of you lifting anything heavier than your violin is absurd, and I don't want you coming near me if you have intentions of trying to carry me. Now, if you two would make yourselves useful and help get me out of this damn chair, I would be much obliged."

They appeared as if they were going to argue for a moment, but they finally caved under his harsh glare and grabbed hold of his arms to pull him out of the chair. With their help, he hobbled over to the stairs and grasped the railing on either side of the walls. He then began the slow process of half dragging himself, half hopping up the stairs. Sherlock had moved in front to help him keep his balance when necessary, and Lestrade stood behind to catch him if he fell. It wasn't an ideal means of conquering the steps, but it worked. John was collapsed into his arm chair after a mere five minutes of cursing and groaning. Sherlock tried to ease John into a more comfortable position, but he was smacked away by the indignant doctor.

"I'm not helpless," he snapped at Sherlock.

"I know. I just-nevermind." Sherlock wondered into the freshly cleaned kitchen to start up some tea while Lestrade carried John's wheel chair into the flat. The detective inspector gave a low whistle as his eyes darted over all the recently cleaned surfaces and carpet.

"Someone's been busy."

Sherlock returned from the kitchen and stood awkwardly in the living area, shifting uncomfortably as he looked over the flat. "Well, yes. I didn't do all of it. Mrs. Hudson helped, and Mycroft sent a cleaning crew up to get rid of the more...hazardous messes."

John gave a low snort of laughter, wondering how they had coped with the raging mold infestation that had grown from what had once been a carton of milk. Sherlock glanced over at John with a mildly affronted expression. "No, it looks nice. I was just wondering what the neighbors thought of the biohazard suits."

"They were more concerned with the chemical waste disposal truck."

"Right." John smiled as he pictured the scene that had likely ensued. Mrs. Turner and her "married ones" were bound to have had a fit.

Now Lestrade was the one standing awkwardly, his hands tucked into his pockets and rocking back and forth as he looked about the flat. He didn't much know what to do with himself when he wasn't here on a drugs bust. He eventually shuffled over to the sofa and tried casually taking a seat. He was surprised to note that the couch was black when it wasn't covered in papers, clothes, and other such debris. "So...Is there anything else we need to do to get you settled, John?"

"Um, well, there's the other stairs..." John looked up miserably at the second set of steps he would have to surmount in order to get to his room. This really was the most inconveniently set up flat in all of London.

"Oh no, John," Sherlock interjected. "I've moved you into my room. I thought it would be better for all parties involved."

"Oh. Okay." John barely contained his sigh of relief. Yes, he wasn't helpless, and he could manage a few stairs, but he also wasn't a masochist. "That was nice of you."

_No_, Sherlock thought, _nice is willingly allowing yourself to be tortured for another person. _But he withheld his comment and gave John a tight smile before diving into the kitchen to retrieve the tea. Having John back at home was wonderful, but Sherlock could already see that it was going to be a long time until things began to shift back into their comfortable patterns of before Moriarty's attack.

He could vaguely hear John and Lestrade discussing how things were going at the Yard when a slight tapping sound made them grow quiet. Sherlock clenched his teeth. He would know that pretentious tap anywhere.

"I don't see why you even pretend to respect my privacy, Mycroft!" He shouted through the kitchen. "Knocking is rather pointless when you've got cameras trained on the house all day and night, don't you think?"

"Just extending a social courtesy, brother. I keep hoping that one day you'll learn to do the same."

Sherlock scowled and strode out of the kitchen bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. The tray was obviously lacking in one tea cup. "Terribly sorry, Mycroft, but I only made enough for the three of us. We wouldn't want you ruining your diet with biscuits, anyway."

Lestrade was blinking up at the umbrella toting man with a look of both confusion and fascination. He had heard of Sherlock's brother before, mostly through the scathing remarks that the detective made while on the phone with the government official, but he hadn't expected him to be so...refined. Lestrade unconsciously sat straighter on the chair and tugged at the cuffs of his suddenly shabby feeling button up. He threw Sherlock a glance before cutting in, "He's welcome to have my cup. I was always more of a coffee man, myself."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector." Mycroft took the cup from Sherlock's tray, smirking as he did so. He then settled himself on the sofa next to Lestrade, just a fraction of a bit closer than what was socially acceptable. Sherlock looked between the two on the couch and gave an angry little huff, clearly upset that his plan to exclude his brother had been derailed. He sat in his favorite chair across from John then, his mouth twisting into a petulant pout as he did so. John just watched the whole scene unfold with his eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Are we all done acting like schoolgirls, then?" He took it as a point of pride that all three men turned to glare at him simultaneously.

"Just being polite," Lestrade mumbled, shifting a bit farther from Mycroft.

"Honestly, John, he's insufferable!" Sherlock gestured wildly at his brother.

"I was merely thanking the Detective Inspector for his courtesy," Mycroft stated, scooting back towards Lestrade in a nearly imperceptible fashion.

If John were capable, he would have been rolling on the floor in a fit of laughter. Strangely enough, no one else seemed to be amused.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author: My apologies for the lengthy delays between the last set of updates and today's updates. I've moved into uni and am still in the transition process. The good news is, I've come back with a passel full of ideas! (Not necessarily exclusive to this story; you should check out "The Past that Makes Us.")**

Getting John tucked into bed took a much longer period of time than Sherlock thought feasibly possible. First there had been the bathing debacle, in which John had ended up chucking a bar of soap at Sherlock to get him to leave the room while John soaped up. Then there was the dressing catastrophe, in which Sherlock had let John attempt the chore himself, only to come running back into the room as he heard a crash and some very creatively utilized expletives. The night finally concluded with John slumped against Sherlock in an exhausted heap following the whole ordeal.

"Maybe we should invest in moving to a nudist colony. Wouldn't need help dressing there." John's back was pressed against the bed and his head was propped on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock was mildly irritated by the way John's hair kept tickling his neck, but he didn't mention it.

"We couldn't. Crime rates in nudist colonies are abysmally low."

John's lips twitched at the corners, just the barest hint of a smile, not the toothy grin that Sherlock had come to miss. "Ah. Damn those nudists and their communal values."

John's slightly slurred speech notified Sherlock to the fact that his painkillers were kicking in, so the detective writhed from beneath John and clutched him under his arms, pulling him up then pushing him down onto the bed. Sherlock pulled the covers up around his shoulder before turning to leave the room, but he was stopped by a tug on his sleeve. He looked back down at a groggy-eyed John peering up at him beseechingly.

"Stay?"

Sherlock nodded and flipped out the main light before clicking on a smaller, less intrusive lamp. He then laid on the bed next to John, legs stiffly straight and arms crossed over his chest.

"Just 'til I'm asleep...Don't have to stay all night."

"Nonsense. I'll be here as long as you nee- um, want me here." Sherlock cursed himself for very nearly pointing out John's new dependency upon him. He had seen John fighting the urges to ask for him to stay nearby, and he knew that John hated feeling so needy. So he became John's own personal satellite, always orbiting within earshot and only straying from his gravity when he felt John pushing him away.

"Thanks, Sherlock."

John was asleep within minutes, his fingers gently curled around Sherlock's wrist and the hammerhead shark he had affectionately named Shirley tucked under his arm. Sherlock quietly watched him sleep, monitoring the movements of his eyes beneath their lids and the pattern of his breathing. When John's grip on his wrist finally loosened, Sherlock pulled away and quietly stepped out into the lounge.

He wasn't altogether shocked to find the neatly scrawled upon envelope tucked under the door. In fact, he had been expecting a message of some sort since he heard of the body that was found in a remote warehouse on the outskirts of London a few weeks back. The corpse had been a mystery to the police and had been filed away as a John Doe. Sherlock, of course, knew exactly what name belonged to the body. He hadn't expected Moriarty to react so violently to his provocation, though.

He examined the letter thoroughly, taking note of every detail of its packaging before cutting it open. A small sheet of plain, albeit expensive, paper fell out into his hand. He unfolded the meticulously creased sheet and took in the looping scrawl that danced across the paper.

_An eye for an eye;_

_You forfeit yours by taking mine._

Ah.

Again, this wasn't entirely unexpected, but it was unfortunate. Sherlock's mind began whirling with a thousand different ideas, each with the sole purpose of keeping John safe. He knew that, no matter what he did, it would just be a temporary fix. A bandage to a cut that needed stitching. No matter how well protected John was, or how well hidden, he still wasn't safe from Moriarty's never ending influence. The only permanent fix was to cut the head from the snake, to kill the psychopath before he could make good on his promise.

Sherlock carefully shredded the letter into unrecognizable bits before dropping them into the rubbish bin. He felt cold, distanced from himself. He felt like he needed to run, to dash off and tuck John away in some remote little country, but he knew that to do so without proper planning would be pointless. So he settled for calling Mycroft. An equally drastic action, but at least he was doing _something._

After an hour long conversation with his brother which ended in him agreeing to let their flat be equipped with a variety of security systems and cameras, Sherlock collapsed into bed alongside John once again. He supposed that they were lucky John would be confined to the flat for the foreseeable future; at least that way he could more easily keep an eye on the doctor with a penchant for attracting crazies.

John gave a low moan in his sleep, his uninjured leg shifting restlessly beneath the sheets as he clutched his shark closer against his chest. The moan quickly turned into a whine and then into a cry as Sherlock watched the tossing escalate. Sherlock heaved a frustrated sigh. He had been waiting for some sort of a breakdown, but he had also been hoping that John would find a more convenient way of sorting out his psychological damage. Running in to calm John down at all hours of the night did not sound like an altogether pleasant experience for Sherlock. However, he could see that John was now attempting to roll over in his sleep, and Sherlock knew that he needed to cut in before the doctor hurt himself.

He rolled over and clambered atop John, straddling his hips such that his own legs were pinning John's still. He then reached up and clasped John's hands between his own, using his longer fingers to stroke at John's palms and wrists. Light murmurs of comfort were pouring out of his mouth without Sherlock being completely aware of what he was saying, or even if he was saying more than, "You're okay, John. It's all okay. You're fine, you're safe."

John's writhing stopped, but his breathing remained ragged and panicked. Sherlock was confused; John had always calmed down with these gentle touches. Hell, sometimes all it took to silence his night terrors was Sherlock's vocal reassurances. Now that neither were working, Sherlock didn't know what else to try. He watched helplessly for a few moments as John's jaw clenched and choking, gasping breaths heaved from his chest.

He finally collected John into his arms and rolled him onto his side, being careful to maneuver his leg into a painless position. He then pressed their fronts firmly together so that he could wrap his arms around John's middle and rub gentle circles over his back. John's head naturally fell beneath Sherlock's chin, so that the detective could bury his nose in John's tousled hair and inhale the scent of his recently shampooed hair. Not that he would ever have admit to having done so. As John's breathing began to even out, Sherlock contemplated moving John back into his original sleeping position. He eventually decided against it, thinking that to do so would risk waking the doctor, and he didn't want to disturb him after he had just fallen into a peaceful slumber. So he nuzzled John's head closer to his own chest and continued stroking patterns onto his back.

From Jim and fear both, Sherlock would protect his heart.


	18. Chapter 18

Leaving John alone in the flat had become one of the most agitating experiences Sherlock could imagine. Worse than listening to Anderson's stories of the time he spent back packing in Germany; even worse than overhearing Sally and Molly exchange complaints about "Mother Nature's Monthly Gift." Despite the advanced lock that adorned their door, despite the reinforced glass in their window panes, Sherlock was still apprehensive. He still felt the nagging twist of paranoia that told him to run, run as quickly as he could, back to John's side. But he had things to which he must attend, and John still wasn't healed enough to leave the flat.

"Sherlock, that's the third time you've checked that window." John was watching his flatmate with a raised eyebrow and the tiniest hint of a smile.

"Ah. Yes, I'm aware. I was just...checking to see if the latch needed oiling. It felt a little stiff the last time I locked it." The lie would have been more convincing, Sherlock thought, if it weren't for the fact that he had used the same one yesterday when he kept slamming their front door open and closed to see if the hinges would break if enough force was applied.

"You know you're bordering on OCD, right? I'm not sure, but I believe that it's socially unacceptable to have more than one mental hang-up at a time. You'll likely be thrown out of the High Functioning Sociopaths Society if they find out."

Sherlock spared John a tight smile before beginning to gather his coat and gloves off the chair in the corner of the room. "Do you want anything else before I leave? I asked Mrs. Hudson to bring you up lunch if I'm not back by then, and I've got your laptop plugged up over there, should you get bored."

"I think I'll be okay, then. Thanks."

Sherlock hesitated at the door, frowning as his eyes swept over John once more. He didn't exactly know what he was looking for, but a biting sense of unease told him that he hadn't found it.

"Lestrade's going to call Mycroft and report you missing if you don't leave soon, Sherlock."

Sherlock winced at the thought. He had noticed the detective inspector and his brother were spending an inordinate amount of time together, and he didn't much like envisioning what terrible things were happening behind closed doors. Knowing his brother, it likely involved a lot of chocolate and whipped cream. These were ghastly images which made him lunge for the nearest distraction and consider starting an experiment in creating actual brain bleach.

"Right. I'll be back as soon as I can. Text me if you need anything from the store; I can pick it up on my way back."

"I think I'll wait for Mrs. Hudson to do the shopping, thank you. I don't much fancy getting another enema when I clearly asked for a chocolate confection treat."

Scowling, Sherlock retorted, "It wasn't my fault! You'd just taken your painkillers, and "enema" and "M&Ms" are practically homophones when slurred. Anyone would have made the same mistake."

"Yes, well, I'm chalking it up to a strike on your homoerotic tally. A man doesn't buy another man an enema without sexual motivations."

"Are you speaking from experience, Doctor Watson? You seem rather well-informed for a heterosexual."

John blinked, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead and a grin slowly spreading across his face. He suddenly looked both proud and mischievous at the same time. Since Sherlock couldn't deduce the cause for this sudden transformation, it was rather unnerving.

"What? You mean you haven't figured it out yet?"

"Figured out what, John? You're being rather vague."

"I'll take that as a no, then. Hm, interesting. Very, very interesting." John settled back onto his pillows with an appallingly self-satisfied expression. "I suppose I'll just leave it at that, then. I'd hate to deprive the great Sherlock Holmes of a mystery."

"Really, John, now you're just being intentionally ambiguous."

"Of course I am, Sherlock. I rarely ever get to one-up you, so I'm going to savor it while I can. Now don't you have a corpse to poke with a stick?"

"Please, I don't _poke _them with _sticks._ Except for when it's completely necessary for gathering information, and then I do so with the proper respect accorded to the recently deceased."

"I'm certain you do." John rolled his eyes and tossed Sherlock his scarf. "Good bye, Sherlock."

"Good bye, John." Strolling out of the flat, Sherlock felt the painfully familiar tug of worry in his gut, but he pushed it aside until it became no more than a vague niggling in the back of his mind. "John is okay, John is safe, John will be fine," became his silent mantra as he hailed a taxi to Scotland Yard.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Sherlock didn't believe in intuition. If the facts were all there and all were observed, and they most often were, man had no use for such abstract concepts as "intuition." Despite this belief, however, Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling that something was very, very rotten in Denmark. This feeling was only heightened by the utter normality of the Yard as he strode into the building. People were standing in corners and carrying on conversations, others walked unhurriedly by with file folders and papers. In other words, the complete chaos that usually accompanied a terrible crime was absolutely absent. If there hadn't been a crime, then why did DI Lestrade call him to the Yard?

He found his answer soon enough as he entered the detective inspector's office. The grey-haired man was hunched over a crossword puzzle, chewing on the end of his pen between bites of bagel. He didn't look up until Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Sherlock? What are you doing here?"

Sherlock's stomach seemed to plummet straight to the floor. "I got a text saying that you needed me here." He left Lestrade to figure out the implications of that statement alone as he began to fight down panic. Of course, he should've known. The DI almost never texted, preferring to come in person or to discuss details over the phone. And Jim was a master at manipulating technologies; it would have been oh so simple to create a fake text from Lestrade.

Terror beginning to build in his chest, Sherlock spun around to leave the office. It was so obvious now, clear as champagne. He had to hurry, had to get home before...

_Crash._

Sherlock gasped as he was abruptly thrown to the floor. The world was devolving into nonsensical fragments around him. He was aware of shouting, of shrieking cries and shattering glass. He could hear more people falling to the ground as window panes across the building exploded inwards. As things began to coalesce into a complete picture, Sherlock attempted to writhe from beneath the heavy weight that was pinning him to the floor. The weight simply shifted and held his arms firmly in place so Sherlock couldn't move as freely.

"Jesus, Sherlock, stop moving about! You'll draw the snipers' attention to us."

Sherlock froze and turned his head to stare at the detective inspector. He frowned in confusion; for all his massive intellect, he had somehow failed to notice that the weight holding him down was a man, and that the man was Lestrade. He was clearly panicking if such an obvious fact went unnoticed.

"Then what do you propose we do, Inspector? We can't very well lay on the floor all day and hope the snipers don't notice."

"We just need to slowly and calmly move towards the center of the building. There's more cover there, and maybe we can talk to some of the other officers and find out what in bloody hell is going on."

"Clearly, Lestrade, the building has been surrounded by snipers and is being fired upon by those same snipers. Considering the text I received earlier today, it is safe to assume that Moriarty has arranged this standoff. Although, to what end, I'm not entirely sure."

"Brilliant. You honestly couldn't have chosen to make enemies with, I don't know, the ice cream man?

"Please. I ended my feud with him years ago. Now I get free sherbert once a week for helping him find out with what man his wife was cheating on him."

Lestrade groaned, wondering if Sherlock had inadvertently aided in causing an innocent ice cream truck driver to murder. "Alright, it sounds like things have quietened down a bit. It should be safe to try and move. Stay low to the ground, preferably laying flat and using your elbows to pull you."

"I know how to army crawl, Lestrade."

"Wonderful. Now do it." As Sherlock began pulling himself across the floor, Lestrade followed along behind. He himself had raised so he was crawling on his hands and knees, which allowed him to act as a shield hovering slightly above Sherlock. He'd be damned if a civilian was going to get shot while in his office, even if that civilian was Sherlock Holmes.

"There's no need for you to act so protective. I'm perfectly capable of caring for myself, and-"

Whatever he was going to say was cut off by the sound of a bullet puncturing flesh and Lestrade's pained cry as he collapsed on top of Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes grew wide as he looked from Lestrade's bleeding shoulder to the bullet buried in the ground mere centimeters from his own head.

"Shit shit shit fuck damn!" He cursed and grabbed hold of the DI, trying his best to avoid touching the ruined flesh, but still feeling the desperate need to get them as far away from the shattered windows as possible. It was awkward and difficult to pull a semi-conscious Lestrade towards the center of the room, and he had to stop and readjust his grip far more often than he would have liked. Every pause was another few seconds they were in danger, another few seconds that Lestrade was not getting the medical attention he needed. During once such break, Sally suddenly appeared by his side and grabbed hold of Lestrade. Her face was flushed, but her grip remained steady as she helped Sherlock move the DI out of the line of fire.

"Have you seen where the shots are coming from?"

"No," Sherlock grunted and wiped sweat from his forehead. "Been a little preoccupied, what with Greg here getting holes blown in himself."

"Woulda been in yer 'ead." Lestrade's eyes had rolled open and he was staring blearily in Sherlock's general direction.

Sherlock scowled, wondering why so many people seemed perfectly willing to throw themselves in danger for his sake. They weren't doing him any favors; sometimes a bullet wound or two was preferable to the guilt. "Thanks for that, I suppose."

"Anytime," Lestrade grunted as he was moved the final few feet to the cluster of cubicles behind which the other officers on the floor had gathered.

Anderson immediately descended upon the DI, tearing open the medical kit that had been retrieved off the wall. "Sorry, sir," he muttered as he cut Lestrade's shirt off to expose the hole blasted through his skin and bone. Lestrade bit back a moan of pain as his shoulder was moved, but he otherwise remained still while Anderson looked over the damage.

"There's a lot of damage to the bone and surrounding tissues, but I don't think it hit any major arteries. As long as we can control the bleeding, you should be okay until the medics get here."

"Wonderful." Lestrade gritted his teeth and allowed his head to thunk back against the floor as Anderson began applying pressure to the wound, then soaking it in antiseptic spray and wrapping it in a thick layer of gauze.

Sherlock sat off to the side, his legs pulled to his chest as he watched the scene unfold before him. He still couldn't fight off the biting sensation that something terrible was going to happen, and he felt sick from the way his heart was racing in his chest. He tried to tell himself that it was just because he had come within centimeters of having a bullet lodged in his skull, but that excuse felt hollow next to the numbing apprehension that was sweeping through his body. He had come close to being shot, stabbed, and/or clubbed to death plenty of times before; he had never reacted as strongly as he was now. No, something was wrong, something that was making his heart simultaneously freeze and pump boiling hot blood through his veins.

"Oh, god. Sherlock, look!" Sally tugged on the arm of his coat and pointed out one of the gaping holes in the side of the building. His eyes followed the trailed indicated by her quavering finger, but he knew long before he saw exactly where she was going to be pointing.

Black smoke curled in thick plumes from a street not terribly far from the Yard. It clawed into the hazy grey sky, causing darkness to fall over the city below. The smoke gathered, a dark mark drawing attention to the atrocities that had been committed below. Beneath the foreboding cloud of smog, oranges flames caressed a small, slightly dilapidated building. They wrapped themselves around reinforced window panes, and they crawled up the edges of stone and brick, searching for more edible surfaces for them to devour. They slid up the red door, searing hot and vicious, heating the small metal numbers such that they burnt a brand into the wood door, charred black and forever reading, 221B.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock felt his breath freezing in his throat as he watched the scene that was unfolding before him. He knew that everyone's eyes were either glued upon either him or the smokey horizon, but he couldn't rein in enough composure to put on his mask of cool uncaring. He was losing control and everyone could see and everyone would know, could see it before their very eyes, just how much he cared, but he couldn't bring himself to hide it, not when it was John, brave, solid John, and Mrs. Hudson, kind, teasing, Mrs. Hudson trapped in that building. He should've been with them, he should've been burning right along beside them so at least he could shake off this choking weight of guilt and fear and dread and powerlessness. The heat would be welcome against the icy sludge making its way through his heart.

"Sherlock." A firm hand gripped his arm, pulling him out of his spiraling reverie. He glanced over his shoulder to find Lestrade staring solemnly back at him. "It'll be fine, Sherlock. I'm sure the fire department's on their way over right now to sort things out. Everything will be alright."

Nodding mutely, Sherlock turned his attention back to the shattered window. The flow of smoke into the sky hadn't abated, but the fire did not appear to be getting larger, either. So either it had run out of fuel to stoke the flames, or it was under the control of the fire department. From this distance, Sherlock couldn't deduce which was the correct answer.

"Of course. Everything's going to be fine. Senseless to worry. I'm sure it's being taken care of." His voice sounded hollow and weak even to himself, but he had to offer some sort of reassurance to himself. Even if he knew it for lies.

"And look on the brightside," Sally piped in, "at least now you have a reason to get rid of that god-awful wallpaper."

"Yeah," Sherlock choked out a laugh, "I wonder how much of this is going to be coming out of my rent."

The other officers present joined in with his forced laughter, all desperate to ease the gnawing tension and fear that had settled into their bones. Uneasy conversation broke out, gentle murmurings that buzzed meaninglessly around Sherlock. He knew that they were just trying to distract themselves from the fact that they were pinned in a fox hole with no exit in sight, but it still annoyed Sherlock that they weren't panicking, that they couldn't see that John was in trouble, that John was quite probably _dying._

Another tug on his coat brought Sherlock's attention back over to Lestrade, whom was slumped against the edge of the cubicle, his face pale and a thin sheen of sweat beading below his hairline. "You should call Mycroft. He'll want to know..." He grunted and gripped his arm, unable to continue. Sherlock wasn't sure exactly what Lestrade wanted Mycroft to know. That he, Sherlock was safe? Or that his lover had been shot but was being taken care of? Or possibly he just wanted Sherlock to tell his brother that he was on the edge of completely and utterly losing control?

"You should lie down."

"Can't," Lestrade groaned, "Risk losing more blood that way."

"Oh. Okay." Watching the DI struggle to remain conscious, Sherlock suddenly decided that he wanted nothing more than to talk to his brother. Mycroft was a meddlesome bother, but at least he could do _something. _He wasn't trapped in a cage of concrete and shattered glass while John was burning. He pulled out his phone and slowly dialed the number, desperately hoping that Mycroft would pick up as calm and collected as ever, informing him that John and Mrs. Hudson had been retrieved long before the fire ever became a true threat.

Of course, he would never be so lucky.

"I was wondering how long before I would hear from you, brother." Even over the phone, Mycroft sounded frazzled and on edge. Sherlock could hear indistinct noises in the background, possibly shouting and the sounds of footsteps hammering down hallways. "I'm afraid that I'm a bit...indisposed at the moment."

"Mycroft, what's going on?"

"It would seem that your dear friend Mr. Moriarty has planned a three-pronged assault against you. Very clever. I'm still not sure who the mole in my ranks was, although I have a few suspicions."

"What are you saying? You can't mean that-"

"I'm saying, Sherlock, that my headquarters are currently under attack from the inside. All our computer systems have been shut down, including communications to the outside branches. I suspect the only reason my phone has remained online is so that you could have this very conversation with me." The conversation stalled for a moment as Mycroft held the phone away, holding his hand over the mouthpiece and shouting orders to subordinates. Eventually he came back over the line, sounding more strained than before. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut our chat short, Sherlock. Was there something that you needed?"

"He's burning him, Mycroft. John, and it's my fault."

An exasperated sigh blew over the line. "Honestly, brother, this is hardly the time to suffer an emotional crisis. Moriarty is counting on that happening. I'm afraid that I can't do much for John at the moment, but I can assure you that I will offer whatever aid I can once my affairs here have been sorted. In the meantime, you need to lie low and stay away from any open spaces. You'll hardly be able to help John if you get yourself shot."

"Right." Sherlock's voice had taken on the same flinty tone he used when faced with a suspect that wouldn't talk. He could feel his resolve building, could feel his muscles relaxing as his mind rushed through all possible courses of action.

"And Sherlock, please don't do anything rash."

"Of course not."

An awkward silence filled the phone line as Mycroft apparently struggled to say one last thing. "Am I correct in assuming that everyone at the Yard is relatively safe?"

Ah. Of course. Sherlock shouldn't have needed Mycroft's less-than-subtle prompting to know what he was requesting. "Lestrade has been wounded, but he's not in immediate danger. The bullet went through his shoulder and didn't hit any arteries. The bone has been severely damaged, but he should recover."

Only a slight exhale betrayed Mycroft's relief. "That's very good. I'm glad to hear it. Please inform the Detective Inspector of my hopes that he makes a speedy recovery."

"Right. Goodbye, Mycroft. I hope your troubles don't inadvertently cause a global crisis."

"And I hope you don't cause too much trouble on John Watson's behalf."

The line went dead as Mycroft began calling out orders once again. Sherlock tucked his phone away before turning back to Lestrade.

"Mycroft sends hugs and kisses and wishes you an expedient recovery such that you're well enough to engage in sexual relations soon."

The refreshed need for brain bleach was well worth the shocked and aghast expression that adorned Lestrade's face at that moment. Sherlock smirked and turned to the other officers.

"Right. Well, it's been a pleasure coming under fire with you all. I hope you continue to exist with all your organs in their proper states of functionality, and please do try to avoid mucking things up too terribly while I'm gone."

"Wait a minute," Sally cut in, "this sounds an awful lot like a farewell speech."

"Of course it does, Sally. That's the point of a farewell speech, after now you've gone and ruined my moment. Terribly bad form."

"Sherlock, whatever you're thinking of doing, if you're trying to do it alone then you're more of an idiot that I originally thought. There's no way we're going to sit by and let you run about willy nilly doing god-knows-what and getting yourself shot."

"I have no intentions of getting shot, Sally. And it's best that I do it alone because we're less likely to be noticed that way."

"Alright. I'll bite. What's your plan, then?"

"I was going to make it up as I went along. It seems to work relatively well in those awful Bond movies."

"No," Sally scowled. "There's no way in bloody hell I'm going to let you run into sniper fire without some sort of a plan. Now listen, we've got fifteen people up here that can help you. Discounting Lestrade and Anderson, that's thirteen."

"Hey-"

"Shut it, Anderson. You know as well as I do that you're a terrible shot. Besides, you need to stay here and keep an eye on Lestrade. Anyway, there's thirteen of us to help you, Sherlock. The way I see it, we'd be better off if we broke into teams. We could have four teams of three to act as distractions, and then you and I actually trying to get out. We shouldn't have any problems navigating the building, but the real trouble will start when we get out on the street. From my best estimates, they've got two snipers covering the front and rear sides of the building, and one sniper for the two sides. If we could knock out the ones covering the sides of the building, then we'll be in business..."

Sherlock listened intently as Sally detailed her plan. It wasn't terribly complicated; basically, two teams would go to each side of the building. One would move out in the open and draw the fire upon themselves, allowing the second team to pinpoint the sniper and take them down. Meanwhile, Sally and Sherlock would be working their way towards the exit. The biggest danger was getting caught out in the open by one of the four snipers that would be remaining after their assault. Sherlock just hoped that the marksman teams would be able to circle around and shoot down those last four snipers without getting themselves shot; that would be the game changer that would determine whether or not the Yard was freed from Moriarty's clutches.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author: I googled pictures of Scotland Yard for this section, but there's only so much information I could gather from there. Because of this, I apologize if anything I say in here is inconsistent with the Yard's actual set up. You can chalk it up to "creative liberty" if I get something terribly wrong.**

Sherlock watched as Sally struggled into her Kevlar vest, her fingers trembling ever so slightly over the fasteners. Her face was calm and even stoic, but an occasional shudder ran through her hands every so often, slowing her progress with the vest.

"You're nervous."

"Of course I'm nervous. We're not exactly trained for this sort of situation. Oh yeah, they tell us what to do in theory, but once we're out of training, you kind of forget that this sort of stuff actually happens. And you never think you'll be the one running into the fire."

"Here." He quickly linked the fasteners for her, feeling that he'd rather do it himself than watch her fumble with them for another moment. Her anxiety was causing his own fear to return, and he couldn't have that, not when fear would distract him from his ultimate goal. "We'll be fine. We won't even be in any real danger."

"Of course, because I'm just imagining the men with guns pointed directly at us."

"They're not pointed at us, more just in our general direction. The vest will keep you safe from most life-threatening injuries, too, so you shouldn't be terribly worried about that."

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Stop trying to be comforting. It's weird and I don't like it and you're just making me more uneasy."

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. "Although I want it on the record that I tried."

"Of course." She gave him a tight smile before they regrouped with the rest of the teams. They had managed to send men a couple of floors down to retrieve supplies, so each of them was wearing a bullet-proof vest and was armed with some sort of a gun. The ones deemed the best shots had been given sniper rifles of their own so that they could eliminate the snipers on the buildings next to the Yard. Everyone else had some variation of a pistol.

"Alright, everyone ready?" Sally looked over the little army she had organized. She was rather proud of her plan, but she would be more so if it actually worked and everyone got out of here alive. She wasn't entirely sure of the statistical figure, but she knew the odds were weighted against that outcome. This just might be the last time she saw some of these men, and it made her stomach churn to consider that _she _could be the one to be taken down.

Once everyone had nodded their assent, they broke apart, each team heading to a different location in the building. A tense air of foreboding fell upon the room, but Sherlock ignored it and followed Sally to their designated stair well. They hunched behind cubicles when they could, and crawled across the floor when necessary. Just as they found their mark, a shot echoed through the building. Sally gasped and froze, her breath caught in her chest as she listened for more information as to where and why the shot was fired. Eventually, her answer came in the form of a short burst of static over her walkie talkie.

"Team 2 reporting; was sighted by snipers, shot was fired. All members are safe."

"Acknowledged. All other teams okay?"

Voices came across the walkie talkie confirming that none had been injured. Sally took a moment to respond before turning back to the stairs. "Alright. Let's get on with it, then." She pushed the door open and led Sherlock in, her own gun drawn and sweeping around corners to check for danger. Sherlock knew this was pointless; Moriarty wouldn't have sent his men into the building, too big a risk for too little gain. However, he saw that the motion helped ease some of the tension in the sergeant's shoulders, so he didn't mention this little fact.

"What do you expect to do then..." She swept the gun around another corner of the stairwell, "once you've gotten out of here? You won't be much use back at Baker Street."

Sherlock frowned; he didn't know exactly what he had wanted to do. He just knew that he couldn't sit in the Yard and watch Baker Street burn for another minute. "I'll find something to occupy my time. Odds are Moriarty sent one of his men to the flat; surely they've left some piece of evidence there."

"If it hasn't been burnt."

"Right. If it hasn't been burnt." They fell into silence as they moved through the last set of stairs. What little bit Sally had relaxed quickly came back with a vengeance as they exited the stair well and stepped out into the more open first floor. She dropped to the ground immediately after stepping from behind the door of the stairs and motioned for Sherlock to do the same. He crawled after her, rather frustrated at being led around like a child but also thankful for the fact that he wasn't attempting to make his escape alone. They were half way across the room when the sound of more gun shots echoes from above.

"Shit. They've started. We need to hurry." Sally adjusted her crawl so that she was up on her hands and knees now, moving quickly across the floor. The shots were becoming more frequently and from both sides of the building, causing Sherlock to speed his crawl up to pull ahead of Sally.

"Quickly. Our distraction's going to be gone in a moment."

"I'm going as quickly as I can, Sherlock. I'd rather not attract the attention of the other snipers, though."

"Nonsense. They couldn't possibly hit us from this angle."

Suddenly, a shot rang out from the front of the building. Sherlock gasped and cursed as the bullet whizzed past, grazing the flesh of his arm. Sally looked over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

"You were saying?"

"Shut up. Just keep moving." Giving his arm only a cursory glance, Sherlock continued to move towards their designated exit. He could now hear one of the teams above returning fire upon the snipers. He silently cursed, knowing that in a matter of a few minutes their chance to escape would be over. "Come on. They're ahead of schedule."

"Sherlock," Sally hissed, "Get back behind me. You're a civilian; I'm supposed to be the one leading you around!"

"No time. We need to be at the door _now."_

Hearing the gunfire silencing on one side of the building, Sherlock rose to his feet and dashed towards the door that exited into the alley beside the building. He heard more shots ringing out around himself, but he was ducking behind pillars and desks to avoid being hit. Sally cursed and ran along behind him, yelling obscenities at him the whole way. She suddenly knew with all too much clarity how John felt on a daily basis.

"Sherlock! For christsakes, would you get back on the ground? You're going to get your bloody head blown off, and John will never let me live it down if you do!"

"Would you shut up!" In a fit of anger, Sherlock spun around to yell at Donovan. The rest of his tirade was cut off, however, by the sight that greeted him as he turned around. His eyes grew wide as he saw a man dressed completely in black standing behind Sally. The man leveled a gun at her head just as Sherlock yanked the gun out his own holster and rapidly fired. Sally spun around to see what was happening as the man toppled to the ground.

"Holy shit, Sherlock!"

"Come on, we need to hurry." He grabbed her arm and dragged her along behind himself as he made his way towards the door. The firing upstairs had quieted, signaling that either the sniper had been taken down, or one of the teams had been eliminated. Sherlock hoped for their sakes that it was the former. When they finally arrived at the door, Sally pulled out her walkie talkie and began speaking.

"This is Alpha Team. We're at the rendezvous point. Are we clear to exit?"

"Alpha, this is Gamma. The west side sniper has been taken care of. You're all clear."

Without hesitation, Sherlock pushed the door open and slipped into the alley beside the Yard. He slid against the wall of the building, attempting to stay as out of sight as possible. Despite knowing that the sniper on this side of the building was no longer a threat, he was still certain that the two on the front and back could get a shot at him if they were so inclined. He waited until Sally had followed him out before moving towards the fire escape attached to the building next to the Yard. If all went as planned, they would enter that building and then move through it to the next building over. In theory, it would be as simple as leap-frogging from one shelter to the next until they were out of range of the snipers. Then they could move out into the open and do as they pleased.

As they scaled up the fire escape, Sherlock's eyes fell upon the horizon once again. He could still see smoke curling up, clouding the sky and throwing a premature dusk over that section of the city. His heart weakly hammered in his chest as he thought of all the time he had lost in coming to John's side. By now, John no longer needed his help; whether or not he lived or died had been determined without Sherlock there to sway the odds in favor of the former. In all essences, it was a more sadistic application of Schrodinger's cat paradox. Now all that was left was to open the box and see if the poison had been released.

They managed to enter their safe haven without any complications. Apparently, the remaining four snipers were too preoccupied by the assault teams to notice Sherlock and Donovan exiting the premises. Together, they rushed through the center of the building towards the opposite side. Once there, they clambered out onto the fire escape and made for the next building over. They repeated this process until they reached the end of the street. Then, they dropped to the ground and headed for the sidewalk.

"I believe I no longer require your protection, Sergeant."

"You always need protecting, Sherlock. Whether it's from yourself or crazed cabbies with pill bottles, you'll always need someone there to look out for you. Since John is indisposed at the moment, that duty falls on me, I suppose." She gave him something resembling a smile, despite the fact that her eyes kept wondering worriedly back to Scotland Yard.

"They will be alright, Sally. As you can see, emergency teams have already arrived and are taking care of it. Besides, thanks to your scheme, they have quite the head start in disposing of the snipers."

"Yeah," her smile grew a little bit more genuine. "I suppose we should start heading towards Baker Street, then?"

"Again, I can quite manage on my own if you'd rather stay behind and help sort this out."

"No. They have plenty of help here already. I think my services might be more useful with you."

Sherlock sighed but hailed a taxi anyway. He wasn't going to argue when he had only a vague idea of what awaited him when he arrived at the flat. Quite possibly, Sally _would _be needed there. She did seem to have a rather robust skill set.

They sat in the taxi in silence. Sherlock could practically hear his blood pulsing too hard, too fast through his veins. He twisted in the seat, attempting to regain some of the calm composure that had stolen over him while they were in action, but he couldn't settle the tides of thoughts and worries crashing through his mind, not when they were just _sitting _there, doing absolutely nothing but waiting. Useless. Useless, helpless, and unavailing.

"You're going to puncture holes in that seat if you don't ease up your grip a bit, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes darted over to Sally to throw her a poorly concealed glare before moving to stare out the window once again. He couldn't ease up his grip on the seat. If he did, he would lose what little control he had on the rest of himself. He would shake apart, he would crumble, he would fracture into fragments of himself. No, he couldn't let go, not yet.

As expected, the road to Baker Street was blockaded to keep the public and reporters out of danger. The cab stopped and Sherlock thrust a handful of bills at the cabbie before dashing towards his flat. He could hear Donovan behind him, shouting and waving her badge to get a path cleared. He would have to remember to thank her when this was all settled. For now, he pushed his way through the thickening crowd towards the source of the billowing plume of smoke that hung overhead. He could see the flat now, see the blackened stones and the water pooling around it as the fire department worked to put out the last few remaining flames. He could see the charred windows and the aching tears that leaked from around the frames. The door hung open, a splintered mouth gaping open in a perpetual, silent cry of anguish.

And he could see John. John, splattered in red and smudged in black. John laying on a stretcher; John broken once again; John flickering out of sight, too far away to be grasped and pulled back.


	21. Chapter 21

John was bored within minutes of Sherlock leaving the flat. He stared listlessly at the wall for a moment, willing himself to find a productive way to stem the flood of boredom, but his options were rather limited. He could move about the flat using his wheelchair, but it was difficult and awkward to do so. Usually he just flip-flopped between laying on Sherlock's bed and laying on the sofa. So unless he took up knitting, there wasn't much productivity he could achieve.

He flipped on the telly for a few minutes, mindlessly staring at the screen as yet another daytime drama came on. The first week he had been home, he had tried entertaining himself with these shows, but they became too repetitive and overworked for even his Vicodin-addled mind. He didn't find them anymore entertaining now that he was off the drugs, either, so he clicked the TV off and fumbled around for his laptop. He went through the motions: check email (one message from Harry), respond to email ("I'm fine, thanks. Glad to hear you're doing better."), check for comments on the blog (none), update the blog ("Still shot."), scroll through some news articles, shut laptop off. How teenagers could spend hours on those things, John had no idea. He suspected there was some time-devouring website which he had yet to stumble upon, but he didn't care enough to find out for sure.

He grunted as he shifted positions, the movement making the pinpricks of pain in his leg become more insistent. He closed his eyes in an attempt to think the pain away, but it didn't work. It never had before, so he wasn't sure why he kept trying. Possibly because he hated dependence of any sort. Whether on medicine to make still having his leg attached tolerable, or on Sherlock to keep him entertained and not depressed. It was unhealthy how much he relied on Sherlock to buoy his mood, but facts were facts and he couldn't ignore that he was significantly happier when Sherlock was beside him. So with a resigned sigh, he popped open the bottle of painkillers and swallowed a couple of tablets dry. It was a new bottle, a fresh reminder of the fact that he no longer had complete control of his body or mind. He was a puppet to his pain receptors, feeding the beasts the drugs they craved whenever they demanded.

He was also suddenly very, very tired. He was used to the lethargy the pills induced, but this was beyond anything he had felt before. It was more than lethargy; it was exhaustion and a complete inability to think through the oppressive smog that was slithering into his head. Realizing that something was terribly, terribly wrong, he flailed his arm towards the phone, grabbing at it as best as he could. It was too far out of his reach, however, and the smog pulled him into its depths before he could dial the number for Sherlock.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"Wakey wakey Sleeping Beauty!" A cold hand struck his face, yanking John further towards awareness. He peeled open his eyes and stared blearily up at a pasty white face topped with black hair.

"Jim."

"Ah, so good to see you're doing so well after our last little game together. I was afraid I might've played too rough." He pulled a face that was a cruel facsimile of apologetic. "I sure would hate to have broken my toy the first time I ever got to play with it."

"What do you want now?"

"Oh, revenge, retribution, vindication. All those boring things. But you see, it is quite necessary. I couldn't let our dear Sherlock think that he'd won the game, you know. Oh no, no, no, no. I'm afraid that you just _have _to play this one last game with me so Sherlock knows that he will never win."

During Jim's little speech, John had been observing his surroundings in an effort to find out exactly what in bloody hell was going on. He was handcuffed to the headboard, that much was easy enough to figure out. But he could also smell a thick stench of chemicals permeating the flat. He was a bit thrown by that, but he had his suspicions as to what he should be expecting. Despite his seemingly endless reserve of diabolical schemes, Jim seemed to have fixation on pyromania.

"You tampered with my medication."

"I did," Jim pulled a pouty face. "But it was completely necessary. Getting into the flat after Sherlock installed all his silly security devices would have been hard enough without you being conscious and shooting at me. It was quite tricky getting in here; I'll have to congratulate Sherlock on that later. But first!" He clapped his hands together and smiled broadly, "you and I have some catching up to do. So, did you ever tell our pretty little detective about your crush?"

"No." John tried to fight the blush that was creeping up his cheeks and neck. It was hard enough to admit to himself that he liked Sherlock without having a psychopath rubbing it in your face.

"Well that's too bad. I was sure he would've come running to get into bed with you after I showed him the video." Jim frowned as if Sherlock's actions had truly wounded him.

"What are you talking about? What video?"

"Oh! He didn't tell you then? What a pity. I was sure he would've come sobbing to you, confessing how truly sorry he was about everything. Of course, he does like to pretend not to care about these things..."

"What. Video."

"Ooo, getting feisty, are we? Well, if you insist on knowing, I suppose I'll _have _to tell you, then! I just thought it was awfully unfair that Sherlock missed playing our little game with us, so I filmed it for him. Now I know it's not the same as watching it live and in-person, but he seemed to rather enjoy it anyway. He especially seemed to like the part when you _begged _him to help. That was my favorite bit, too, you know. Finally seeing you break so utterly and completely. It truly was beautiful."

John scowled, fighting the urge to lunge at the man perched delicately on the edge of his bed. It would only cause more problems, and he risked hurting himself before the real "game" even started. But the horror of what Sherlock had seen was slowly dawning on him. There were admittedly large gaps during which John remembered little to nothing, but what he could remember wasn't pleasant. He hated to imagine what had been happening during the bits he couldn't recall.

"You utter bastard."

"Now now, Johnny-boy, there's no need to get snarky. I was just doing Sherlock a favor, after all. And you, too! At least with the video, you didn't have to tell everyone what happened. They could see it for themselves. See how you wept and sobbed like a shattered little baby; see how you begged for savior from a man that cares absolutely nothing about you."

"That's not true."

"Oh, isn't it? Well then, I suppose I've been watching the wrong flat, then. Because the one I've had under surveillance just has a sad, crippled ex-army doctor falling into a deeper depression while his consulting detective "friend" runs about, leaving him home alone with nothing to do but watch crap telly. Of course, if you believe that you two are getting along as happily as you say, then I'll take your word for it. Who am I to contest what you say?"

"Shut up."

"I will be, shortly. I just have one last thing to say before I wrap up here." He scooted closer to John, looming overhead like a predator ready to deal the deathblow to its prey. His mouth lost the teasing smile it had borne through the rest of the conversation, settling into a hard line. "I just want you to know that, whatever happens here today, it's all Sherlock's fault. I was willing to leave you alone after our last encounter. I was going to go back to minding my own affairs, back to ignoring the harmless little blip on my radar that is John Watson. But no, Sherlock had to interfere. Sherlock had to stick his gun in places they didn't belong. So, if by chance you escape here, and I almost hope you do, I want you to look in the mirror at your horribly disfigured body and know that all the blame rests on Sherlock's shoulders."

He pulled back, smiling that twisted grin of the truly mental as he stroked his fingers through John's hair. "Well, that's all I have to say to you, Johnny-Boy. It has been nice chatting with you once again. I'm just going to finish up my business here, and then I'll be off." He rose and strode out of the room, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets and whistling a happy little tune as he walked through the door. John cursed and began tugging at the handcuffs, writhing until he gained the right leverage and he could just-_SNAP._

He bit his lip, straining to hold in a scream as he broke the bone in his hand. He managed to hold it all in except a faint groan as he pulled his right hand out of the the cuff. Outside the room, he could hear Jim shuffling around and then the sort of hissing and clanking noise that is only made by a blow torch. John quickly readjusted himself so that it appeared as if he was still handcuffed to the headboard when Jim came waltzing back into the room.

"It has been a pleasure, Johnny. I hope you'll-" Jim gasped and fell back against the wall, his eyes blown wide in shock at the gun John had leveled at his body and the bullet that was now wedged into the soft flesh of his stomach. He gave a strangled cry as he fell to his knees, both his hands clutching at the blossoming stain of crimson on his shirt.

"Forgot I was the paranoid, keep-a-gun-hidden-under-the-pillow type, huh?" John gave Jim a faint smirk before twisting around so that he could ease off the bed. He hadn't tried moving without his wheelchair yet, but he decided that now was as good a time as any to give it a go. He propelled himself off the mattress, hissing in pain as half his weight settled onto his injured leg. He quickly adjusted so that as little weight as possible was on it, allowing himself to shuffle towards the window.

He silently cursed Sherlock and his reinforced glass as he shot a round of bullets at the window. He half considered trying his luck at escaping through the living room, but the heat radiating into the room and the roar of flames licking around the door told him that to do so would be unwise. So he continued firing round after round at the window, hitting the exact same spot repeatedly until it began to crack. Once it had a substantial amount of spiderweb-like fractures, John broke the leg of his nightstand off and slammed it into window repeatedly. Eventually, the glass shattered and John was able to break the smaller remaining fragments out.

Smoke was now filling the room, causing John to cough and wheeze as he stepped back to gather a blanket off his bed. He tossed it onto the ledge of the window in an effort to protect himself against being impaled by one of the pieces of glass he couldn't break off. He wiped at his watering eyes before stepping towards his newly created exit. He was about to attempt pulling himself out when he heard a faint groan coming from the floor. He closed his eyes, trying to will himself to ignore it, but eventually he gave in and hobbled back over to Jim.

"Come on, you've gotta get up."

"You shot me." Jim looked up at him with an expression mixed of confusion and pain.

"Yeah, well, you were going to leave me handcuffed to the headboard while I burned alive. All's fair in war and torture, right? Now come on, we have to get moving. Smoke's too thick in here."

"Not been shot in a while...It hurts...I forgot..." Jim had turned even more pale than before, his dark brown eyes now standing in freakish contrast to his paper-white skin. John cursed as he realized that Jim was going into shock, if he wasn't already there.

"Alrighty, up you get." He thrust an arm under Jim's shoulders and pulled him up, groaning as the strain sent sparks of electric pain through his leg. He grunted as he half-dragged, half-walked Jim over to the window, sure that he was going to crumple with every step he took. He didn't however, and they somehow ended up back against the window just as the first flames began to find their way into the room.

"Jim, I need you to be as still as possible for the next few minutes. I know it's going to hurt, but it'll hurt worse if you move. Okay?"

Jim's mumbled "okay" was barely audible, smothered as it was in John's jumper. John sighed, pulling Jim against his stomach as securely as he could before easing them down onto the window ledge. The smoke and heat were now becoming overpowering, and John was grateful for the fresh air that rushed into his lungs as he began pulling them through the sill. Jim was giving pained little moans, but he otherwise remained still as John had asked. Pulling them both through the window was a tight fit, and John was glad that the Yard wasn't there to see him clutching another man so close against himself. If it hadn't been for the imminent threat of death, he would've been mortified by the way the friction was building between them as he dragged them through the narrow space. As things stood, he wasn't too terribly bothered by it at the moment.

Breaking free from the window meant a rather uncomfortable drop onto the fire escape below, and John had to roll around so that he took the brunt of the fall so as to avoid further injuring Jim. He was going to be damned if he'd pull the man out of a burning building just to have him get crushed to death under John's admittedly greater weight. Despite the human cushioning, however, Jim still gave a pained cry as they fell, cringing in on himself and moaning pathetically.

"You're going to kill me..." He whimpered, gripping at the now rather sizeable bloodstain smeared across his shirt. John was miffed to note that he now had a matching stain on his now stomach, a product of having held Jim so close while he slowly bled out.

"Yeah, and you've ruined my favorite jumper, so I think we're even. Come on, we're not out of the woods yet."

This time he hauled Jim up onto his back, such that the man's arms were wrapped around his neck and shoulders. John then began the slow descent down the narrow fire escape, the aged metal groaning under their combined weight as he eased them down. He just thanked god that they had been on the second floor, and that the fire escape had railings that John could clutch onto as his leg screamed in protest at the extended activity he had been engaging in. Between the smoke inhalation and the pain, his breath was coming out in sharp gasps as he worked his way down the screeching stairway.

He could now feel a warmth not related to the fire or his exertion spreading down his leg; it was wet and sticky and smelled terribly coppery. He continued to ignore it, however, as he stumbled down the last few steps and collapsed onto the dirty tarmac. He gasped and wheezed, the edges of his vision turning blurry despite his struggle to remain conscious. He could still feel the heat radiating from the burning building; he knew they weren't safe, but he couldn't pull them along any farther. He was tired, he was in pain, he couldn't focus, and it all felt like too much to bear at the moment.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

"John! John!"

He could see flashing lights and hear voices yelling over one another. One voice, however, was more persistent than the others.

"Oh, god, John, you're hurt. Where are you hurt? Where's all this blood coming from?"

Warms hands were gripping at his body, pulling his shirt up to look beneath the fabric. John tried to tell them to bugger off, but his tongue was currently occupied with being too large for his mouth and refused to cooperate. Instead, he batted the hands away and rubbed at his eyes in order to bring the world into clearer focus. When he brought his hands to his face, however, they struck against something hard pressed against his mouth and nose. He frowned as he investigated it, slowly piecing together what it was. Ah, so that's where all the blessedly smoke free oxygen was coming from...

"John?" An anxious face appeared in his line of vision. This one was pale, too, and had dark hair atop its head, but John rather liked all those black curls.

"Sherlock? What are you doing here?"

Tension was evident in the corners of his eyes, in the way his shoulders were slightly hunched. "I came to make sure you were all right. John, you're hurt. Where is it?" The hands began pushing at his clothing once again, but John grabbed Sherlock's wrist to stop the detective from stripping him in front of half the emergency response forces.

"The blood's not mine, Sherlock. It's Jim's. I shot him," John couldn't help but give a little grin at that and the shocked expression that was growing across Sherlock's face. "Well, the blood on my leg is mine, but I think I just tore the wound open a bit. Nothing to be too concerned with." It was getting harder to breathe, now, so John grew quiet once again and sucked in glorious lungfuls of clear air.

"So...you're fine then?" Sherlock appeared as apprehensive as if he were in the middle of defusing a bomb. The sight was oddly endearing.

"More or less."

At that, the tension finally broke free of Sherlock's features, allowing a giddy smile to spread across his face. "Oh, thank god, John. I was so worried. I thought...I thought you'd been...Nevermind. It's okay; you're okay." He grinned and pressed his head against John's shoulder, wrinkling his nose against the stench of smoke. "You need a shower."

"Yeah, and you need stitches." John peered at Sherlock's arm, concerned over the cut that was obviously a graze wound from a bullet. "What in bloody hell have you been doing?"

Sherlock pulled away, his grin turning into a smirk. "Oh, nothing of much importance. I'll tell you once we're at the hospital. We'll need _something _to bide the time there."

"Of course." John smiled as Sherlock pulled himself up on the stretcher with him, perched on the edge of it like John's own private watchdog. John supposed it was appropriate, given how much time he spent looking out for Sherlock.


	22. Epilogue

"Bloody fucking hell!"

"John, I don't see how you expect to be able to control your breathing when you're too busy cursing every five seconds."

"Bugger off."

"Fine. I'll leave then." Sherlock dropped his arms and moved as if preparing to abandon John as he swayed on his feet.

"No! You can't go. You promised you'd help. You even told my therapist you would."

"Right. Sorry." Sherlock stepped back towards John, extending his hands such that they were hovering a few inches below John's outstretched arms. As John took a shuffling step forward, lip caught between his teeth in concentration, Sherlock took a small step backwards, his hands ever ready to catch John should he fall. Which happened more often than either one of them cared to consider.

"Sorry. About the cursing. It just gets..." He let out a shaky breath as his right foot eased onto the ground. "Just gets frustrating."

"I understand." It got frustrating for Sherlock, too, watching John slowly piecing his life back together. He was healing much more quickly than his doctors had originally anticipated, especially after having torn the wound open during the fire, but Sherlock suspected that it was through John's own force of will and not his body's doing.

"I'm thinking...that maybe the wheelchair...wasn't so offensive...after all."

Sherlock smirked, remembering all the times John had thrown a fit when he couldn't get somewhere because of the chair. The kitchen, particularly, had been a big point of contention between John and the wheelchair. Not being able to brew his own tea had truly driven John mad.

"It will get better soon. You're already moving at a stunning velocity of two meters per hour. I'm sure that would be a speed record, were you competing against patients at a nursing home."

John laughed, shuffling ever closer to the sofa. That was always his goal, because he could celebrate his victory by collapsing upon it and taking a nap afterwards. "Yes, I am quite the...speed demon, aren't I? Should join...the Olympic team."

"Indeed." Although John still declined the anti-depressants following the last incident with Moriarty, he had agreed to see a therapist again. This time, Sherlock had Mycroft help him select his doctor, and the results were beginning to show. John laughed genuinely and more freely now, especially making light of his injury. He still had the occasional nightmare, but they were less frequent now. It helped that Shirley had survived the fire and could still be used as a security blanket.

Sherlock calmly synchronized his movements with John as he limped along, a comfortable silence growing between them as they did. This happened more frequently now; instead of being caught in a whirlwind of action and intrigue, they spent quiet evenings orbiting around one another in easy rhythms. Sherlock still left the flat to help Lestrade solve a murder or two, and sometimes John was even able to come with him, but Sherlock was no longer dragging John all over London while chasing shadows and hints of clues. John missed this, but he also found that they could unearth other ways of entertaining themselves. They had already created multiple variations of "Truth or Dare," which inevitably ended in Sherlock ingesting something mildly toxic and spending the rest of the evening drinking milk and inducing vomiting. John would have never thought it possible, but they were now going through milk faster than ever before. He supposed that, as a doctor, he should discourage these games, but he liked to see how far he could push Sherlock, while Sherlock declared he only did it "for science."

They were about a meter and a half away from their destination when, for the third time during this course of PT, John stumbled and pitched towards Sherlock. Due to the placement of the coffee table, however, Sherlock was unable to catch him under the forearms as he normally would have done. Instead, he lunged forward and clutched John around the middle, stopping his fall against his chest. Panting, John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes wide in shock at having almost fallen. Again. He never got used to that terrible feeling of tumbling, however, and each time it caused his heart to hammer against his rib cage in a rather unpleasant manner.

This time, however, he wasn't completely sure if the fall was entirely to blame for his racing heart. He was now pressed firmly against Sherlock's chest, his arms thrown around the taller man's neck in a last-ditch effort to regain his balance. He stared up into Sherlock's blue-grey eyes, wondering if the detective was deducing the cause for his erratic heart rate.

Apparently, he was.

"Oh!"

"What, Sherlock?"

"I've figured it out; that little "mystery" you teased me with back before the fire."

"Oh, really? And what, may I ask, is your conclusion?"

"You're bisexual!"

John grinned, burying his face against Sherlock's shoulder. "Of course I am, Sherlock. I honestly can't believe it took you this long to figure it out."

"I don't exactly make a habit of questioning my flatmate's sexuality."

They lapsed into a slightly less than comfortable silence, John still clutching onto Sherlock as they fell back against the couch. John nuzzled up into his usual spot against Sherlock, tucking his head under Sherlock's chin and wrapping an arm around his slender waist while the other hand traced little designs on Sherlock's chest.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Does this change anything?"

"Absolutely nothing."

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

The cell wasn't nearly as unpleasant as Sherlock felt in should've been. In fact, it was obviously lacking in some shackles hanging from the ceiling and medieval torture devices. He supposed, however, that the cold concrete flooring and barren walls would have to do. What put him out most, however, was the fact that they provided Jim with as much paper as he desired, allowing him to scrawl whatever horrible little thoughts that ran through his head onto them to keep for later. He already had a sizeable stack of papers accumulated on the corner of his table.

"Oh, Sherlock! How wonderful to see you! I must say, I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten about our little luncheon. You're such a naughty boy for keeping me waiting."

"I see they're treating you well, Jim."

The psychopath broke out into a large grin, his face becoming disarmingly alight in comparison to the drab surroundings. "Oh, well, you know how it is. People around here don't much care about an arsonist. I've rather flown under the radar, haven't I?" The smile was twisting into a gloating sneer before Sherlock's very eyes. He wondered how a man could have a face so moldable, so much like putty that it became completely devoid of any actual emotions.

"Yes. I'm afraid we couldn't give you full credit for all your other works."

In fact, they hadn't been able to pin a single thing other than the flat fire on him. Jim was good at what he did; he had erased any and all evidence of his involvement in any other crimes. Even the incident at the pool slipped through the books because vital paperwork had mysteriously vanished. The only reason they had been able to stick him on the arson charge was because Mycroft was rather peeved about losing control of his head quarters, and had therefore taken a personal interest in the trials. Jim's attack against Scotland Yard had gone unpunished due to the fact that all the snipers had been killed or had committed suicide and couldn't be linked back to him. All in all, Jim had gotten off extremely easily.

"It's such a pity, don't you think? But don't worry, Sherlock. The world will know. One day. Once I've finished all that I want to do, I'll show them everything. They won't believe it at first, won't be able to admit that one man brought all of London burning to the ground, but, over time, they'll see. Legends will be made of me, and all the world will remember James Moriarty."

"You realize, of course, that I will be there the whole time, waiting for you to slip up so I can make you fall off that pedestal you've constructed for yourself?"

"Oh, I count on it, Sherlock. I need you, you see. I need you to be the one figuring out all my little puzzles. And I need that blogger of yours to write them down, one by one, chronicling my genius. As Jesus had his apostles, I have you two. You will spread the word of what I have done, and you will be the ones to make the world believe it all. A new age is coming, Sherlock, and I will be leading it. You are merely the vessel by which I spread my word."

Sherlock scowled, desperately wishing that Jim wasn't safely tucked away behind bars. Wishing that he could wrap his hands around the skinny little man's neck and crush his windpipe beneath his grip. It would be so easy to kill him, so easy to leave him, gasping and broken, on the floor. But he couldn't. Not with guards and security cameras watching. Instead, he merely settled for a derisive scoff.

"I do love listening to your delusions of grandeur, Jim. They are quite remarkable. Perhaps one day I'll have John write them down, so we can read them to you while we bury you in a shallow grave. They will be a eulogy of sorts, a reminder of all that you didn't accomplish before we killed you."

"Ooo, I do love it when you get all menacing. It's quite lovely. I can see why our little Johnny-Boy likes you so much. You get so attractive when you're angry."

"Yes, well, I hear that I have many other traits which make me desirable also. John, for one, has noted that he likes my inventiveness. And, oh, I have been thinking of some special things to do for you. I think that, by the time you and I are through, you will be rather fond of my inventiveness, too."

He rose with a disdainful brush of his sleeve. Sneering at the grinning man behind the bars. "I do hope you enjoy your last few years here, Jim. I can promise you that they will be the last ones you'll find pleasant."

"Years, Sherlock? Oh, I plan to be out of here in a matter of weeks, dear. I hope that doesn't spoil your plans."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, but turned and left without another word. He didn't doubt for a minute that Jim planned to keep his promise. Nor did he trust the penal system to keep him behind bars if he was truly determined to make an escape. No, he would have to be ready. Jim could be out at any time, and then, then the game would be on once again.

And next time, Sherlock was playing to win.

**Author: Oh my god, it's over.**

**Basically, thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, alerted, or favorited this story. You all are quite amazing, and I don't think I could have kept the energy up to finish it without you all. Writing this truly has been one of the best experiences of my summer, and I hope to keep posting more stories for your reading pleasure. Maybe a sequel? And then there's the AU of this I have planned...So many possibilities, although I'm not promising anything as long and angsty as this was! I'm not sure my nerves could handle writing all those cliffhangers. Please continue to be wonderful people, and I look forward to writing more for this glorious fandom.**


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